The Wolves of Bath
by Kiki-Ora
Summary: A paranormal play of what might have come after for Anne and Frederick, struggling to understand who they have become in the 8-1/2 years apart -aided by a cast of catty sisters, gun wielding cousins, drunken sailors and werewolves.
1. Chapter 1 The Morning After

_Sorry Jane, and lovers of traditional F&A stories. This is a paranormal edging almost into sci-fi version of what might come after..._

_Written to to fill the boredom of a blizzard that would never end, it is my first attempt at a creative something. Tried to fit Emma in here, but only got in Catherine, Henry, Elinor and the Darcy's. A nod to the Harry Potter series and to all things zombies, a wink at some sci fi and hard bitten detective novels ._

_Too, mature themes explored and some serious adult attitude displayed._

_Please let me know what you think!_

_Oh, I am not sure how this uploading system is working... so please bear with me. The story is finished but needs to be uploaded in stolen moment_s.

**CHAPTER 1 THE MORNING AFTER**

"Anne." Frederick leaned towards her, serious. He looked into her dark eyes, wise and calm. "Damn it. I made a hash of it… I should have written you. After the Asp."

Anne sat straighter on the park bench, the winter branches behind her framing her like a forest goddess, her face still, her eyes closed. Did he see the tiniest bit of a tear forming in an eye? He reached out, and instead, pulled her wrap closer around her shoulders, her neck.

He dropped his eyes. God, how he had made them both suffer in Lyme, in Uppercross. Again. He'd done it to himself, and this time Anne too, he'd been too damn pig-headed, too hurt to see there was a way out of his pain and his anger, a way around of his hurt pride.

Had it been cowardice? No, not that. It had been just plain old pig-headed pride mixed with that raging anger he could not let go of, maybe wouldn't let go of, but needed too.

But, suddenly, somehow, despite the years they were back on course, and thanks to Providence, headed in the right direction. The wind was in their sails. He just had to learn to let go of the anger. Well, maybe not that aimed at to Lady Russell. Or Elliott. Not just yet.

Frederick looked at Ann, turned her face with his fingers to make her look him in the eye. Her skin was so soft.

"I… I hurt you… with…Louisa." He paused, "I did that deliberately."

There, it was said, his crime against her. Would she accept it as the apology he meant it to be? Or would she slap him, leap up, walk away?

Anne sat, unmoving, closed her eyes, but her face betrayed a flick of raw pain.

Frederick slid closer. Damn what convention said about sitting near a woman, your fiancé even, on a park bench in Bath. He took both her hands. If this was anywhere else he'd have taken her in his arms now. Her engagement ring sparkled on her finger. Sophia had given him his mother's rings last night, after they had returned to their house. This morning, next to the little lake with swans in it, Frederick had slipped it on Anne's finger, with only a kiss to the finger tip.

"Frederick, no." She pulled her hands from his, her face infused suddenly with a bright smile at his touch, and a blush. She looked at his mother's ring happily.

Anne eyes rose, her face serious again. "No, Don't berate yourself… you did what was…"

Anne Elliott sat taller, searched for a word, "… _you_ at the moment." She whispered that and heard her own voice break, and she hoped he could not hear in it the pain, so intense, so visceral, that still swirled in the depths of her belly when she thought of their long separation and his recent cruelty.

Why couldn't she just be honest with him about her feelings? She knew, from what her mother _had_ told her, so long ago, honesty was the basis of a good marriage. Why was Anne always scrambling to be the peace-keeper in her family, scrambling to make everything right for everyone else? Why was she always sacrificing for others? Did that make things better for her?

Why couldn't she talk of the pain to him, how he had hurt her deeply, tortured her even, with the Musgrove girl? A girl she'd once called a friend, sister even?

Anne sighed, but suddenly caught by the concern and the love in his eyes her thoughts wondered to the warmth in her heart and the startling heat in her belly his gaze filled her with. Was he handsome? She couldn't tell. She had never been able too, all she saw a flame of a man that kept her warm, even in the damp greyness of Bath. Her heart beat hard as she looked at him, her mind blank.

Now, where had she been going with her words? Trying to step out of that silly daze she smiled, "Besides, we are together now. Now - all _WILL_ be right. We'll just forgive each other, and set our marriage date…"

A shadow fell over them. "Oh ho! What have we got here? Damn Wentworth, I didn't know you were in Bath."

Frederick froze at the voice. He didn't need to look up to know that John Broyle stood there, and if the future Viscount Randall stood there, shit was about to happen. He looked at Anne, and poured into his eyes all the "_Please forgive me_'s" he could before Broyle opened his effing big mouth.

Frederick leapt up keeping Anne's hand firmly in his.

"Broyle. Damn. Good to see you." He didn't shake Broyle's hand, his voice was flat and cold, and he realized he had sworn in front of Anne. With a sudden sinking feeling, he caught the scent of rum. The man had been at his cups all afternoon. This would not be good.

"Anne, may I introduce Captain John Broyle, master of the _Amelie_, Viscount Randells eldest." He felt Anne curtsy just the perfect amount.

"Broyle, my fiancé - Miss Anne Elliott." He squeezed her hand tight, keeping his grip firm. He'd not let her pull away, run away, as he had before.

"Oh ho ho. What _Loverboy_ Wentworth, getting married? And to a baronet's daughter?!"

Frederick felt Ann's hand clench suddenly in his.

Boyle laughed his large laugh, loud and raucous, and Frederick closed his eyes, willing Boyle to just pass out here and now from too much drink, or a tree limb drop a stunning blow on his head.

"Haa. I courted the icy Miss E. Elliot a few years back in London. Thank god I was called away before I made a serious _stupid_ match."

Anne, shocked, sucked in her breath. Frederick hissed "John! That is…."

Broyle laughed. "Yep, a damn close call - and no insult to you nor your fine sister, Miss Anne. Fine woman she is, quite the fine filly." He waggled an eyebrow.

A strangled gasp escaped Anne.

Frederick sighed. If she were to become his wife, she'd have to learn to deal with the coarseness of sailors. John excelled at coarse, rude, loud and drunk despite his rarefied family and excellent education. Compared to Broyle, Admiral William Croft, once only a butcher's son, pulled off hoity-toity when need demanded, as well as proper, and tactful. Croft though, had been incredibly well trained and brought to heel by his sister, Sophia.

Frederick smiled, would Anne need to train him?

A sharp realization, his sister Sophia had done it already. Else wise Lady Dalyrimple and old Elliott would have had him thrown him out last night. He'd carried off last night's foray and attack fine, his proposal had scuttled young Elliott's plans, and Anne had been very clear to all that this marriage would happen, come hell or high water, with her father's blessing or without.

Boyle reached out, grabbed Anne's arm. "Well Miss Anne, have I got some stories for you."

Frederick smiled as she slipped from the future viscounts hand somehow firmly and politely, with complete elegant grace. She gave a cool but kind smile, looked up at the man's big red face, and said "I am sure you can, sir. Captain Broyle, why don't you sit down right besides us and _tell me all_."

It somehow came out as a command.

She turned and winked at Frederick. Frederick gasped, felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. He realized it was Anne now who held his hand, firmly, as if she would not allow him to slip away, to escape. Her smile at him was a command too, and somehow a little wicked. She wanted him to face this reckoning. He hoped afterwards she would not want to escape him either, despite all. Hoped she would not loosen her grip.

"Agh, Broyle we need to be…" Frederick tried to say "_getting on our way_", when Anne said, "..we need to sit down."

Anne gracefully pulled both sailors down next to her, and somehow, managed to sit shockingly close to Frederick and properly distant from Boyle. Frederick's skin tingled where her body pressed against his.

"Oh them was the days Miss Anne- back when we were old mid-shipmen and young lieutenants out on the old _Namur_, eh Wentworth? Breathin' fire we was. What was we? Seventeen? Eighteen, I think? Gar, you and the station master's wife. Haa. Thought we was so grow up. I remembers this time we ended up in Gib, and remember that fight with…with …them boys… "

Frederick sighed, belly sick. "The _Royale_…".

He was sunk. Best Anne learn of it now. She could leave him, and be done with it, before they got too deep, too entangled again. A blackness rose in his heart, that gaped wide, wider than the death he was sure of, back in 1811 in the Adriatic.

"Oh yeah, there we were out in the Gib, and we jumps those _Royale_ boys. Ha! Fists a flying… Remember Harville pounding at that _mate? Thought he'd kill the man! Ha - they thinking we, from a third rate, not as tough as first raters. Haa. We proved them. Then you'se there bleeding -laughing though- drags us all into that whorehouse…"

As Anne jerked back, shocked. Frederick hissed "Boyle, there is a lady here!"

Boyle snorted a wet drunken snort.

"Remember, it was the one we _always_ went to?" He laughed, winked at Anne. "Anyways… remember them two fine fillies? Now that was a night." Broyle started to wipe away tears. "Didn't you put one of their dresses on and you was dancing on the table, castanets in hand? Haa!"

"John," he hissed, feeling Anne stiff and rigid next to him. "_To wives and girlfriends…_"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know the rest. _May they never meet_." Broyle laughed.

He winked conspiratorial at Anne. "Now Miss Anne, there was this one time out on a beach in the West Indies…"

He looked at Frederick, slyly. "Remember your girl - skin like night?"

Frederick's blood ran cold, his finally healed heart started to break again as he saw Anne's face. He supposed he could go back to sea when Anne got up and slapped him, and walked away this one last final last time. And it would be the final time. She did deserve a better man. He'd… go find a ship to attack. Maybe _this_ time it would _kill_ him.

Surprisingly, instead, she squeezed his fingers.

"Captain Boyle, really, I'd rather hear about the battles." Anne said gently and firmly. "The fights."

"Battles, humpf. They're no fun." Silence. Grief and horror rose in Boyles eyes, the man shivered.

Frederick's belly rolled, remembering one particularly bad battle with John as young Lieutenants, just before Boyle was made commander. The remains of the Thurlow boy covered John's hands, who was trying to stuff the boys guts back into his body. Tears streaming down both their faces, John moaning, "Peter, Peter, Peter… you're ok, right? Right?" Frederick trying to pull him away from the boy, tripping over another body, landing hard on what had been a man. They sat silent.

Suddenly, recalling himself, Boyle said, "The nights were fun."

Then he pulled a face. "At least until '06."

He glared at Frederick. "After '06 - Damn, the man got damn boring if you ask me. Became a friggin' pissy monk. Give a man a ship, and he changes."

"Oh, did he?" She turned, looked at Frederick archly, back straight, face unreadable, but her dark eyes sparkling.

"Sailed away in that rust bucket in 1806 - No one else would take her - We thought he'd be dead before they'd make 100 miles. Said he was going to fight Napoleon in it."

Broyle laughed, then looked at Anne. "But he proved us wrong. Anyways, word's out he has a death wish. That makes him lucky - very lucky - that. Never told no one _why_ that wish."

A bell tolled in the distance.

"You sure you wants to go an' marry him? The man's a monk. Blah. No fun." Boyle hiccuped.

The bell tolled again.

"You're a pretty girl. Marry me's instead. I'd make yous a lady." A snorted laugh, and he reached around and gently punched Frederick in the arm with a smile.

"Lucky dog. Damn! I'm late. Th'ole'man will kill me… or at least cut me off. Can't let that happen. Money buys us drinks."

Drunkenly he rose, kissed Anne wetly on the cheek and stumbled into the darkening evening.

Frederick watched Ann sit there with a shocked looked, taken aback by the Broyle's forwardness and the things she'd just heard. Things were playing across her face he couldn't read.

He sat, his soul cold, waiting judgement.


	2. Chapter 2 A Fight in the Dark

CHAPTER 2. A FIGHT IN THE DARK

Anne sat silent a long time, back straight, eyes half closed. The light started to fade in the park. She held Frederick's hand tight, though, as if she were the one who would not let him leave until she had had her say, but was looking what to say.

He couldn't take it anymore. "Anne, I…" he started but she cut him off.

"Frederick, do you really think I was stupid enough to believe you hadn't been _out in the world_? That there hadn't been girls, women?" She looked severe, angry even. He realized he had never seen her angry before. Distraught, yes, angry was something new.

"Do you think I am that stupid? Do you think I didn't see a passionate man, a handsome man?" She stared at him, touched his face gently. She sighed, but her eyes were hurt, still angry, thoughtful.

"Why do you men think women, at least _we "ladies"_, are such delicate and stupid creatures? Nothing but insipid decorations? That we don't know what you are up to out there? Especially as unmarried and young men?" She glared at him, the anger leaping from eyes to her face. "Child bearing, child birth, … mothers dying in childbirth? You believe I have no idea how and why that all happens? Sir, do _not_ think me _so stupid_ or insipid. Nor young."

Somehow she sat taller, straighter. "_Do not insult me_."

He wanted to pull free, turn. Take her in his arms, do something. She wouldn't let him do anything but watch her face, and emotions playing over it.

Anne watched his face, saw the misery in it. She suddenly softened, brightened at a memory. "Besides, you kissed too well to… not have had … a bit of experience."

"How did you _know_ that?" Frederick's voice squeaked, surprise clear in it, and his eyes narrowed. She'd taken a chance saying that, knowing him the way she did.

"Well,_ I _had kissed some boys with _absolutely_ no experience - before you." She smiled at him, and raised an eyebrow.

Seeing the flash of jealousy and confusion in his eyes she smiled. She would make him beg for those stories, but she'd never tell the one about her and Charlie Musgrove when they were only 8, playing house in the shrubbery.

Frederick tried to squash the jealousy flaring in his belly. She'd sat silent, listening to only a few of his adventures. She'd not screamed, not left him. He tried to be as understanding as her, after all, she was twenty eight, twenty nine now.

"And I only ever _just_ kissed them. But that is not what matters." Worry in her eyes, her concern so easy to read. Her face was so close and he realized she hadn't pulled away. He could just lean in and steal a kiss.

"1806. The _Asp_. What changed within you that _you_ got "so _boring"_?" Her eyes were serious.

"Do you really need to ask?" He was surprised she could not guess.

That story, that pain, of 1806 hovered between them like a stone around both their necks. The pain of that day, year after year. The day they broke. The pain too, of the day that they first met, year after year. She looked at him, said nothing, sat silent, measuring him, weighing everything within his eyes.

Levelly she asked, "I need to know, Sir, do you still have that death wish?" Her two hands squeezed his.

Damn the rules. He always had. Pulling her close, he said "No. Not since last night."

He glanced around, it was getting late. No one was on the paths, in this part of the darkening garden. He kissed her, quickly, gently. Put everything into it. "I have everything to live for now."

A tear fell on his hand.

He looked in her eyes, so cool, calm, collected, and realized that he was the one crying.

Stiff first, seeing those tears, she softened into his hug. He couldn't, though, dare kiss her again in public - he was pushing decorum with just this hug, had really pushed it with that stolen kiss. A hug, where he put all of his love into it would have to do. She pulled back, almost a proper distance. They sat, silent, just holding hands. Just looking at each other, a moment alone. Time slipped as he realized she was forgiving him for all – Louisa, walking away, his… adventures.

It was suddenly the edge of dark, and he realized they were quite alone, all the strollers had hurried home through the damp mist for an early tea. He pulled her close, tighter against him, thrilled she'd not pulled away. She held him equally tight, rested her head against his chest. Startled, he wondered what that meant.

Dare he push his luck, steal another kiss?

"Uhm, you don't have your fingers crossed behind my back do you?" She asked, her voice muffled by his coat jacket.

They both laughed, she looked up, and suddenly her soft lips found his. Startled he pulled back, but then let _her_ kiss _him_. It was tentative at first, a soft kiss, then deeper, harder. His whole world fell into that kiss.

That kiss, Anne poured into it all her grief and forgiveness, until a loud bang split the evening dullness. She jerked away and sat up straight.

"Frederick, what was that?"

Before he could turn, a flash of light, another bang. Not looking, his body trained to respond rather than his mind working, he pulled her behind a large oak, protecting her with his body. Another flash, bang, a shout. A scream. A shout, a another scream, and explosions, one after the other. They did not seem to be getting closer, rather, stayed over near the hedge row.

Both pressed gasping against the massive oaks as flashes and shouts continued. Silence. Squirming, she slid under his arm, looked around at the flashes in the dusk.

"Frederick! It's a boy - he's fighting two adults… they seem to have exploding sticks… like…like guns."

Frederick looked around the tree, his belly roiling. Each flash took him back to battles on ships, cannons exploding, light flashing, flares, sheets of sail afire, men and boys screaming. Each flash made him want to drop to the ground, head cradled in his arms. He was shaking, could Anne feel that? Would she think him a coward?

But flashes, St Elmo's-like fire leaping between sticks. Not good, really, really not good he thought. He forced himself to keep watching around the tree trunk.

A boy, just a sprig, stood there, legs wide, almost shadowed by the dark. A sword in his left hand, with a stick, thin and long - -a wand in his right. About fifteen feet from him, two shadowy forms, tall and lean, wands in hand faced him, moving towards the boy.

"Holy God! Wizards!" He gasped, a punch of raw fear filled his belly. He'd heard of them, never seen any. They were rare. Rumour was rampant that Napoleon himself was one, or else had one working for him.

The three were still, silent for the moment, measuring each other.

A shout, _Expelliarmus_ and _Crucio_, the two sticks cracked as one, explosive light burst from the sticks. The boy's stick flashed, a shouted _Expelliarmus_. An explosion of light between them, one of the two staggered back into the dark, stumbling, stick flying from hand.

A scream tore through the park. The child staggered back screaming and writhing in pain, his stick flying.

Frederick pulled Anne back, trying to protect her. The boy screamed on and on, writhing in pain, howling. Twisting, floating just above the ground. A cruel laugh, a shout of victory from the two.

When wizards warred the safest place, he'd heard, was to just not be seen. Get the hell away from them, run, hide. He held Anne pressed to the safety of the tree, covering her with his body.

Anne squirmed from his arms. She looked up at him, but not frightened. Rather, her face was raw with longing and a strange resolve mixed with grief. She slipped away from him, stepped around the tree and faced the three duellers.

With a quiet and graceful wave of her hands at the boy's attackers , she whispered _Impedimenta_. The boys two attackers, fell to the ground, unmoving. She turned and flicked her hand towards the boy as she clearly said, _Leigheas_. The boy dropped to the ground, silent, no longer writhing nor moaning. A quiet _T__eacht claíomh naofa_ as she waved her hand.

The sword the boy had dropped appeared in her hand. She gave Frederick a look of utter loss, her shoulders collapsing almost.

He stared at Anne not quite understanding.

"You… you're a wizard." His voice broke with fright.

Ann stood, shaking, face raw and hopeless, her shoulders slumped. Turning from him, she walked towards the silent unmoving wizards, sword in her hand glowing softly blue in the dark fog of the park.

Startled out of his immobility and confusion Frederick dashed after her, his mind still not processing, shock still rippling through his gut. Grabbing her arm, spinning her, he pulled her back. "Anne, for God's sake, be careful, they're dangerous…"

"No… not now." She said firmly. "Not anymore."

Pulling away, she stood over the two adults. Both were clad completely in black leather, pants and short fitted Spencer-like jackets studded with sharp looking metal bits. Frederick was startled to see one of them was a woman, beautiful but with cruelty written across her face, her long black hair spread like a sea of darkness around her head.

A woman in pants befuddled him.

The man had long white hair, skin so white it was disturbing, and a tattoo on his hand of a grinning skull. The woman wore the same tattoo on her neck, and partly up her face, marring her marble beauty.

"Take their wands, Frederick. Use your gloves…" Anne whispered.

An order he obeyed unthinkingly. He stood, holding the surprisingly heavy sticks awkwardly. Looking down at the two unconscious wizards she flicked her bare hand and said at the same time, _Ar ais_. A flash of light, and both were gone. Startled the boy the boy had not gone, she whispered "Solas orga". A gentle golden glow rose around them, driving back the dark fog.

At first he felt, understood nothing. Then, sudden realization hit him full on. He staggered back, a sick gore rising in his belly, fear and a horror of her rising in his heart. She caught the look on his face and something broke within her.

CHAPTER 3 The Sisters of Mercy

Ann turned and stared at the unconscious boy at her feet, as if her heart, her back, her shoulders had been broken, then she turned back to him. Her face was wet with tears. Voice cracking, she said in a surprisingly calm, strong voice, "His wand, take it too… and pick him up. We need to hurry. Thank god the Sword is safe."

The child looked ten or so, could be no more than twelve. Frederick bent and lifted the boy. He was ice cold and still, breath weak and raggedy. His face was still twisted in pain, but nothing seemed hurt. The child smelt strange and was surprisingly light, as if he'd not been fed a long time.

Anne, taking her wrap, covered the sword and rolled it tight, held it awkwardly, like a stick in her hands.

"Hurry, others might come…" she whispered in the dark.

With that they heard a scurrying patter of feet, and both turned, tense, peering into the thick fog. Frederick was suddenly frightened for her. Anne stood straight, like a fighter, and faced the sound, her free hand up, as if ready for some wizardly fight.

Frederick started, scared _for_ her, not of her. He held on to that, ready to drop the boy and grab Anne, pull her to safety. A shadowy form approached, monsterous in shape, wide at the bottom, its large head topped with bobbing a bobbing feather.

"Anne," a voice hissed. A woman's voice, so out of place he could not identify it.

Then Miss Elizabeth Elliott appeared out of the thickening dark fog. He was startled that Miss Elliott would be out in the dark, alone, and on foot. She did not seem frightened, nor worried, rather, she seemed blasé and cold as always, an umbrella in hand, ruffled and rose coloured. She stood, as if this was a normal walk, that it was totally normal for a lady, a baronets daughter, to walk unaccompanied through dark fog of a park to attend a battle between wizards.

"Anne," she hissed quietly, in her oh so cultured voice. "I thought I felt magic. What were you…"

She stopped, saw Frederick behind Ann, a body in his arms. Looked at the three of them, surprise in her voice.

"Is that a …"

"… A Wizard?" Frederick asked.

Miss Elliott ignored him. "… a _Sacred Sword_, sister?"

Miserably Anne said "Yes, I believe it is the _Dragons Tooth_."

"_By the pricking of my thumb, something wicked this way come_." The two sisters said to each other. Ignoring him, they stared at each other

Elizabeth, voice cool, looked at him with the child in his arms. "I thought that pricking was Wentworth. Or maybe _just_ Mary and her prattle."

"I thought it was our cousin Elliott…." Anne said with a trace of bitterness.

He looked between the two of them. They were not upset, as he would have expected. Anne did not seem to be quaking inside, as he was. Rather she seemed as calm and collected as always. It was as if the two women were discussing the make of a new pelisse. His appreciation of his fiance rose, startled by her cool head. She would be fine upon a man of war, even on a ship of the line in battle as guns blazed, ships sank and men died.

Elizabeth stood taller, held her hand out. "This does _not_ bode well, sister."

Anne, wordless handed her the sword, turned to him, took the three wands in her gloved hands. Her eyes were filled with a hopelessness that he'd only seen on those of the dying.

"Come," Elizabeth ordered, her voice, as always, cold and superior. "We must hurry, sister. Who knows what might follow."

She looked at Wentworth icily, and ordered. "Stay between us with the … boy…. And do not get in front of me nor behind Anne." With that she led him into the dark fog as if she had eyes of a cat. "We have magic to lay."

He was surprised when they stopped in front of his sister's door.

"Your sister and her husband left this morning I believe?" Elizabeth asked imperiously.

"Yes, a message last night. The admiral's brother… dying."

He'd seen the raw look of loss in William's eyes as he waited for Sophie to come down the stairs in the dark of morning, before first light, their carriage waiting in the mist. William looked haggard, older. The hug Frederick gave his sister was long and hard, and the hug he'd given the lost-looking admiral was harder but quick. Funny the traditions one picked up living away. Hugging.

A message of Edward or Sophie dying, arriving unexpected in the night, how would he take that? With less self-possession than the Admiral William Croft had, for sure.

"Good, _we will dig in here_, less windows than Laura Place." Elizabeth announced, "Anne, protect the doors, the windows."

Elizabeth swept regally into the house, pushing Rickettes aside as soon as he opened the door, thrusting her hat into the poor "footman's" hand.

Imperiously she ordered "Prepare a bedroom for Captain Wentworth's wounded guest, and order tea, sandwiches and soup to be served immediately in the library." before they had all made it through the door.

Frederick nodded to the startled _Vengence_ sailor, to follow orders. He led Elizabeth up the stairs, as another crewman/footman scurried ahead of them to prepare a room. Thank God, it was Long, Frederick thought, who had two good legs. Several of the Admirals footmen he called "a-foot man".

As they turned the stair, he glanced down. Anne stood in front of the closed door, making complicated patterns with her hands. Their eyes caught, hers welled with grief. What was this? What was she grieving, about, what had she lost?

Elizabeth called down, "Anne, make sure they build a good hot fire in the library fireplace."

Anne nodded at Elizabeth's command. Frederick bristled, why did the damn cat treat her sister as a servant?

Long pushed open a door and Frederick heaved the boy onto the dark bed clothes. Elizabeth touched the boy's forehead, leaned over, whispered in the child's ear. Frederick noticed a flick of her fingers as she did.

Long, with his broad, port-town accent asked, "Send for the apothecary, sir?"

"What?" Elizabeth glanced up at him, ignored Frederick. "No, I … the child will be all right. The boy just needs sleep now."

She stood up, said to both, "Change him out of his wet clothes, and then, Frederick, you can attend us in the library."

With that, she did _not_ sweep out of the room as he had expected, rather went to the window and looked out, fingers flicking.

Long cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Do as the _captain_ ordered, Long." Frederick didn't smile as he said that. Lines deepened in Long's face, laugh lines.

"Aye aye Sir. Might need to steal some of your night clothes, the child would drown in the Admirals."

Frederick nodded, the boy would drown in his too. As he left to get them, he saw Elizabeth whispering, and her hands moving in complicated patterns at the window. Was there a glowing golden light shimmering there? She turned, did the same, looking at the child.

—-

When he returned with a night shirt, she was gone. Long had pulled the bed clothes down, had gotten the boys wet and muddy jacket off. The kid was deep asleep, his colour much better than the white faced child that he'd dropped on the bed a few moments ago, face etched deep with pain. The pain lines were gone. He had felt the boys hand earlier, it had been icy cold, almost no pulse, slight and fast; and now it was warm with the firm strong pulse of youth. The boy would live. He hadn't been sure he would before, when he'd taken him up in the garden.

"Well Captain, guess when you offers to marry _one_ of them you get the _lot_ of them."

"Humpft." Frederick said as he helped Long, trying to not think that that included the silly, pompous father, that harpy sister, and out in the country a selfish and snobby younger sister with a chatty country squire husband. One who was _still_ very much in love with his future wife. Too, that she-dragon, bitter Lady Russell - he supposed that one would very much be family.

"I must say, sir, Miss Anne is the best kind. Miss Elliott now…" He looked at Frederick. "Quite the cat."

Frederick stood straight, looked at Long. "Mr. Long, we are no longer on a ship. We never talk about our employers…"

"Whatever, sir. Just sayin'".

"Lets get these pants off…"

Undoing the buttons he pulled. They both fell silent, startled, looked at each other. Frederick pulled the blanket up over the child, and then both scurried out.

—

"Anne, Miss Elizabeth," The two sisters, whispering together by the library fire, looked up as he strode in.

"Oh, what is it Wentworth?" Elizabeth said exasperated, as if she were speaking to a recalcitrant servant. "How is the boy?"

"I believe… the boy's a girl."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "Believe, or know? There _is_ a difference, you know."

Anger flared in Frederick's gut. God, how had Anne lived with this harpy for so many years? He could have saved her back in '06, just taken her away with him, no questions asked, if he'd done what his heart wanted. Pig-head, that he was.

A startled "Oh!" as Anne, leapt up and pushed passed him, flying up the stairs.

Elizabeth followed at a more sedate pace, turned, as Long came in with tea, "From your, ahem, _naval_ experience Captain, and your failed seduction of that Musgrove girl, I would really think you know the difference between a boy child and a girl, rather than just believe."

He grabbed her arm. She turned to him, rising taller on her toes. "Captain, that is not how a gentleman handles a lady."

"Miss Elizabeth. I am clearly not a gentleman, and ladies don't act the way you do. I want you to stop ordering my… my.… Anne… around." A slow deep in-breath, blood beating hard in his neck vein.

Still holding her arm, he let his anger seep into his voice, "And… with this marriage, I have bad news for the _both_ of us. We will now be stuck in the same little dory for the _rest_ of our lives. Best we learn to row together."

"Row? Oh, how nautical. Yes, we will be in the same dory. As long as you listen to orders, _Captain_, all will be fine."

With that she yanked herself from his hand and was gone.

"Damn that woman."

Long chuckled, Frederick glared at the ex-bosun.

He turned, poured himself a whiskey, and drank the whole thing in one shot. This was not how he had imagined his first evening being affianced would pass. He'd thought he'd take Anne to the theatre. Rather, empty glass in hand, he stared at a sword that still glowed blue in the flickering golden light of the fire in the grate, leaning against the chair Elizabeth had sat in.

He knew swords, preferring a cutlass himself. This one was old, well made, a beautiful piece really. The thing that caught his attention was that it was not a decorative piece, this one hand been heavily used, dented and knicked. It felt ancient. Another strange thing about the sword, rather than casting back that warm golden light of the cheery fire, if flickered a cold, cold blue as if St Elmo's' fires played over it.

Turning, he went back upstairs.


	3. Chapter 3 Secrets Revealed

Hi! Thank you for the great comments...

**Chapter: Secrets Spoken and others Left to Fester**

Anne watched the small fire playing in the small bedroom's fireplace. Elizabeth had just left. Anne thought she'd felt hollow before, in 1806, then at Upppercross and Lyme, but now, after Fredericks look of raw fear in the park, she felt emptied of all hope, all ability to continue on. A sob escaped her. She started at the click of the door latch.

"Anne. Darling, what is it?" A whispered voice from the hall.

Anne looked up, wiping tears away. The door opened the tinniest crack more, and Frederick's face peaked in, after a gentle knock.

"Oh, everything is fine." She said, smearing away more tears.

Frederick pushed the door open wider. "May I come in?"

She sighed, glanced at the sleeping child on the bed, her little snores deep and even. Anne nodded and whispered, "Come."

The only hopeful thing of the night so far was the _darling_ she had just heard, and the gentleness of his voice. Best though, she it end now, faster, in front of an insensate chaperone, rather than enduring long painful recriminations that would slowly morph from fear into hate. Why had she lied to him and said everything was okay. It wasn't. Even the merrily sparkling diamond ring on her hand was not okay.

"How is.. the little patient?" He reached out his hand for her as he said that.

For the last time, she took it.

"The child rests, we'll know more when he… she… awakens."

Sudden memories of Louisa flooded in, and she caught a sob from bursting out. She reached over, and ruffled the short unevenly cut hair, the girls cheeks rising sharp out of the thin face. Maybe nine years old, no more than twelve. Smallish, , lean to the point of a painful skinny. "She really does look like a boy, doesn't she?"

He nodded, the child could easily be one of the squeakers on his ship, the dear _Lacona_.

"Where's your… sister?"

"Checking defences, maybe curdling the milk too." Anne shocked herself with her sudden meanness. Elizabeth had not been kind a few moments ago.

Throwing back his head, he laughed quietly, rich deep and warm, like honey that warmed the heart. He bent down, his lips brushing her hair, startling her. He settled on the low foot stool in front of her, looked up at her, reached for both of her hands, held them. The fear she'd seen in his eyes were gone, rather, there seemed to be concern there instead, just for her.

"We… We need…." His face was a mask of neutrality. "Anne, What is going on?" He squeezed her hand, and didn't let go.

"I…" She froze, looking at him.

All she could feel was utter grief, a grey hopelessness stretching in front of her. He looked worried about her, tired, concerened for her. Thoughtful. Not the face she was expecting, not the anger, the betrayal, the fear and repugnance she'd seen flash in the park.

Straightening, she spoke. "Captain Wentworth, Sir, I understand. If you wish to withdraw your offer of marriage I will not be offended. Rather sir, I offended _you_ by not being…" She pulled her hands free, started to worry his mother's gorgeous diamond ring off of her hand, her voice finally breaking. "… forth coming about my…"

"Anne." His face flashed from confusion to anger. He grabbed her right hand, took her chin in his hand. "Don't you dare…. I offered that ring for sickness, for health, for better _and_ for worse. I love you. I… I have seen worse… _much_ worse."

Silence.

A low growled, "I've _done_ worse. I just… want to understand." He nodded at the child, "This child. You. Who is the wonderful woman I want in my life?"

Anne sat back startled. That was not what she'd expected to hear.

"Anne, look at me." Frederick said to her quietly, "We are at war. _Napoleon_… he in many ways is _unstoppable_. What … forces does he control? The fighting, it isn't like what Whitehall and the King tell our people. The reality of it is not what gets printed."

She watched as he pressed his fingers into his eyes, pain write clear in his face. "It's been cannons and fire, wizards and evil… beasts… magics…"

She suddenly realized that he too saw that this moment would only be a short peace, despite Napoleon's exile on Elba.

A snap as a log fell in the fire. Both jumped, startled. No face rose form the flame, no hand reached out. She breathed out in relief, relaxed. It was rare, but did sometimes happen. Especially when Cousin Fitz' thought she needed a joke.

He went and settled the logs, let the fire burn evenly for a moment, standing tall next to the fire. He looked at her. His eyes were unreadable. No not unreadable. She couldn't _understand_ what they were trying to say. They couldn't really be saying "You are _my_ Anne, I love you."

They just couldn't. Nothing _ever_ went her way.

She watched him sit again, take her hand again.

"Tell me… what this is…" He nodded at the girl, deep asleep, dressed in his nightshirt, then back at her. "What… you…"

Anne sat tall, tried to keep the tears from flowing.

_"__All things need balance for the world to spin, your job is balance, dear Anne"_, she could hear her mother saying. His truths – some, certainly not all - had been spilled this afternoon, best she spill a few of hers, and hope that balance was restored.

"I…. I am not sure _who_ the girl is. I have _an idea_, if she bore the Sword to _us_."

"_Bore the sword_ to… you?"

"Myself, or Elizabeth. I think its for us, at least I was there - where the sword came." She was confused herself, barely understanding how elemental magics worked, her lessons having ended too soon with her mother's death.

"A sword meant for _fighting_, not exactly what I imagine your sister using. Her tongue is quite enough to skewer a man." He smiled, a flash of the boy she remembered.

She snorted, at his joke. Tried to smile, probably failed. "Frederick, dear heart, I…. I suppose I should start at the start. I am…"

"A wizard." He said, his face filled with love.

"No… not a wizard."

Her heart pounded in her chest. She was frightened, she'd never told anyone this. "Those are… _just_ people, humans. Myself, Elizabeth, the old … families, certain lineages of us … we are…"

Anne paused, would he think her insane? Or, in fright, would he throw her to the ground, pull iron and mark her as was once done, the cruel metal burning like a brand?

"What Anne. Tell me."

"When the Romans came, _my_ ancestors ruled. We were, are … the Old One's." She looked for words, concepts. Old tales, whiche ones would he know? "Through my mother's line, we are … Boedicia's heirs. We were here before … people came, here before the Celts. We were… we are…. You've all used many terms. Fairy. Elves."

His eyes were uncomprehending.

"We are not elves. We are not sprites. Not sweet little wood spirits. We are the… Elven. The true people of this land, its true rulers."

He stared, seemingly not breathing. She sucked for breath like a drowning man.

"Caesar conquered when we were betrayed, when he found and stole the right magics, when he bowed us to our knees with iron, cut and burned our hair, our trees, he weakened us, almost destroyed us."

"My mother's line… we _are_ the forest of Kellynch, we are the _Magic_ of the Land." Anne's stomach still hurt over what they had lost when they left Kellynch. How Elizabeth could soldier on Anne did not understand. Maybe her link to the forest, the land was not as strong.

He looked at her not saying anything. The door opened, and Elizabeth walked in.

"Oh, how sweet, am I interrupting a lover's tryst? No?" She flicked her hand at the fire, it burned stronger, brighter. "Well sister, _finally_ coming clean to your… _dog_?"

"Elizabeth!" Anne snapped, her nerves frayed, not able to be passive any longer.

The child moaned.

Frederick bristled, said nothing for Ann's sake. Elizabeth the cat, he the dog, he could live with that as long as Anne could. Besides, he would take Anne away, soon, very soon from this knife-tongued sister and her silly father. They'd go tomorrow. To Edward's, or maybe he'd steal her away to Gretna Green. Hopefully, when they married he'd not be taking her to war. Rumour ran rampant that Napoleon had been widening his influence again despite being exiled to Elba.

"What, bringing him up to snuff on _who_ you _really_ are sister?" Elizabeth snapped her fingers, the bed and the child disappeared and a chair suddenly , a chair didn't suddenly appear, they _all were in_ the library suddenly, all three. He sat still on the stool, clasping Anne's hands, Anne still on the bedroom chair. The child was not there. His head spun, and he worked to control himself, as if this was normal occurrence out on the boards of ships that sailors dealt with every day.

By the look on Elizabeth's face he could tell she was not happy at his self-possession, his lack of response. Inwardly he smiled. 1 Point for the dogs.

Too, if things were truly dangerous, he expected that Anne would leap to his defence, as he would to hers.

Elizabeth draped herself gracefully over the settee, glared at him with a slightly poisonous look in her smokey violet eyes.

"The lower orders -see, I didn't call them dogs - had always wondered why we, the ruling families of England, always intermarried amongst ourselves, kept our blood to ourselves. We have been trying to keep our blood lines as pure, as unsullied as we could, for a long, long time, all because of the magic. As little mixing with dogs -oops- Romans, Angles, Saxons, the Normans and the more mongrely types - as possible." She laughed, it rang cold, hard and metallic. "Keep the blood blue. Did you know captain, she bleeds blue?"

"The D'arcy's. Haa. They pretend to be such fine _Norman_ stock, but contain some of the purest bloodlines in the land." Elizabeth's smile was cold. There was a surprising bitterness in her eyes. "It has been quiet the juicy scandal, hasn't it, that the scion of that family has just married a _lowly_ farmers daughter from Longbourn."

Anne sighed. Elizabeth was still incandescent at Darcy, over his refusal of her offer for marriage, or at least a coupling to engender a child. Anne knew better though. That Longbourn lineage was pure, as pure blooded as one could get in England now. Which Elizabeth knew as well, when she felt like admitting it. D'arcy _had_ been smart - he _had_ strengthened their family more, rather than diluting it _just a tiny bit_ by mixing with Elliott blood. It would be good to strengthen that D'arcy line for the times that were coming. And somehow he'd married for love. Too, cousin Georgiana doted on her new sister-in-law. She and lizabeth had always gotten along like cats and dogs.

Anne sighed, she needed to rein in E's poison. "Elizabeth, I kindly request that you stop calling Frederick a dog, calling all of them dogs."

"Or what? You'll work up the nerve and zap me with a killing curse?"

Anne closed her eyes, bit her own tongue, which could be just as sharp as her sisters. What was the Naval term? Time to get out the big guns, was that it? Firmly she said, "No. I will just get up and leave."

She stood, stared down at her sister. "Frederick will come with me. We'll go away, and then you will be alone." The final cut needed to be deep. "Utterly, and completely alone."

Elizabeth's face froze. Penelope had just left. Alone with only Father, a bit of Mary. Even her cold, bitter sister needed people, especially _her kind_ of people, other _almost_ pure stock Elven. It didn't help, of course, that her sister and cousin Elizabeth Steventon did not get along, at all. Nor Georgiana. Nor Aunt Catherine...

Elizabeth rose and instead of going to the tea service, went to the drink trolley. "Captain, some grog? Oh, fiddle-faahf, it looks like we only have whiskey. Straight up?" She poured a glass, exactly the amount he'd poured earlier. From the same bottle, his bottle, not the Admiral's.

"Anne, no sherry for you my dear. It's cocktail hour now. Somewhere in the Galaxy at least. Oh, to be in New York with Dorothy Parker, right now."

Anne had always wondered why Elizabeth had returned from that time and that place. Why had she come back? She had seemed happy there and then, as she had been in Paris too, a hundred years in the future. In her late teens and early twenties, after Mama's death, E'd flitted through time and space like a leaf blown in the wind, while Anne sat at Kellylynch crying, writing sad and terrible poetry, trying to be a mother to Mary. At least until she was sent away to school in Bath. Despite all, E always returned, always came back with anger at being back, anger directed at Ann.

Elizabeth handed him ahis whiskey with a cold smile, and Frederick, glass in hand, watched as she made a strange concoction using the gin out of Amsterdam, shaking, stirring, and poured it in to two glasses. A green olive in each. Where the hell did she find green olives in Bath in winter?

"A witches brew?" He asked, raising an eye-brow.

"Ooo, touché, brother, such subtle humour. No, a dry martini. Too sophisticated a taste for you." She snapped her fingers, and suddenly a deep dark black rum filled his glass, the mellow amber whiskey gone. Too, it smelled the cheapest and bitterest of rums.

He smiled, saluted her with his drink and a smile. "Can I get you on my next ship? That little trick will save me much expense."

He threw it back. Couldn't stand the stuff himself, but it was worth another point on her. Cats 1, Dogs 2.

"All about the money, you are. You dogs are all the same." She hissed.

She sat down in the day bed and leaned back, sudden all cool elegance and grace, her fluted drink held artfully in one hand, not sipping. They stared at each other, silent. He was not quite able to believe that these two were sisters, his soft, dark, kind Anne, and this cold, sharp, perfect beauty. A frightening perfection of beauty, really, a goddess on earth. Eyes so smoky blue they were almost violet.

His free hand slipped over to hold Anne's hand, she so warm, alive, compassionate, kind. She always smelled of the forest in spring, of hope and life. He knew the laughing and joyful Anne would come back – that girl had almost been there the past few days. He had seen bits of that girl in Lyme, too, here in Bath laughing as she walked in the Admirals arm, the two teasing each other.

"So, Anne, darling, tell him all." Elizabeth cooly drawled.

Under Elizabeth's cold glare he could see Anne was struggling to find her words, to speak to him.

"Frederick. I am… we both are -"she smiled, at her sister, pulling Elizabeth into this , "n … as I was telling you upstairs…"

"_My goddess_." He said, his eyes serious. Best to disarm both of them, lighten the mood, make her laugh.

Anne started, face serious. "No, do not talk of goddesses. They are … elemental and soul changing. Dangerous. Gods and goddess change the world. I am simply… we are of a lineage stronger than wizards."

She looked away from him, not wanting to see his eyes.

Elizabeth drawled, "Means we are dangerous and full of magic."

"You dangerous to me? Pfhaw. Never." He meant it, could feel it in his belly, where he just knew things. If Anne had listened to him back in '06, understood that _he just knew things_, she would have understood that _all would be ok_.

Elizabeth laughed. "Now she has to kill you for telling you our secret. Perfect, sister, I will ready the sacrificial knife, male blood always strengthens us. Oh Frederick, we do drink blood. Sex, blood, magic, great mix. Raises storms. Makes us stronger. Anne, you should drink some of his, maybe you'll grow a backbone."

Anne looked hurt.

Frederick smiled, hidden in that was indeed a backhanded compliment. He'd take it.

"Wizards are our get - when we mix with dogs - our blood still spitting magic." Elizabeth cooly sipped her cocktail, looking over the rim of her glass.

"Elizabeth!" Anne squealed unconsciously, suddenly embarrassed for the squeak. Thank god, E wasn't this bad normally. Sex, mixing of bloods, was not talked about in proper society - at least mixed society. Blood magic, death magics, not spoken of at all, except whispered among the women of the Elven when the moons were right. It was not bon ton.

Sitting straighter Ann said, "Elizabeth, stop. No calling him, everyone, _dogs_." She dropped her yes, turned to Frederick. "But it is true. If we have children…." She blushed deep at bringing that up front of Frederick, a blush that rose from low in her belly "It is sure our children _would_ be magical. They would be wizards."

"THEY _WILL_ be, by the sounds of it. And we'll cross that straight when we get there," he said to her, raising her chin to see her eyes.

Did she see a flush at the base of his neck when he said that? A flush at the thought of them having children, of doing what was needed to have children? Was there a beat of blood hard in a vein in his neck? Anne grasped his hand tighter, watched him take a big swig that black rum Elizabeth had refilled his glass with.

"Boring. This is dragging on." Elizabeth suddenly interrupted. "We have set up defences on doors, windows and chimneys, - magical defences. I _am_ expecting another attempt by the same …. Let's call them _interested party_… to get the sword. One certain thing, they **can** **not** have that sword."

A sudden nock on the door, they all started. Elizabeth said "Enter."

Long and Rickettes looked in. "Cap'n, Sir. Ladies. The young person upstairs…"

"Asking for some'un." Rickettes was blushing.

Anne squeezed Frederick's hands silently, and leapt up, swished gracefully out the door.

Turning to Long Elizabeth asked sharply, "Why are the sandwiches and soup so laggard in this house?"

Long, a small smile playing around his eyes, face dead-pan, said, "Waiting on Captains' orders, M'um."

Frederick rolled his eyes as Elizabeth suddenly narrowed hers. Quickly, to avert any incident, he said, "Long, bring them up… now. Hop to it."

"Aye, sir."

"Sister, move over. You are taking all of the room. I do not see why we did not go home to _our_ beds."

"Elizabeth, you know that we can't leave the child alone, here.". A house full of men, and dark magics suddenly in the parks of Bath. There was not an extra bedroom at her father's house for the girl, and father would be horrified by his daughters bring over a "_lousy lower order by-blow"_. The Admiral's house was a large airy place with so many bedrooms. Had he expected the whole Navy to descend on his door?

Anne turned, looked at her sister's silhouette in the moonlight. She snuggled closer to her sister, as they had done in childhood. "The Sword, too, is safer here."

Elizabeth laughed. "Yes, for certain, lots of nice martial male energies swirling around here to keep it grounded, between your Cocker Spaniel and the broken-up Labrador retrievers and crackies they call servants here. Up at fathers the thing would probably go spinning in the air and dance about singing the wonders of Gowland's Cream."

Anne smothered a laugh. She could imagine it, father prancing around in his dressing gown, arranging his hair, blind to the sword spinning bright behind him, joyful and light.

She couldn't imagine anyone more opposite her father than Frederick. But, he'd become so dark, so serious since… since '06. She had searched for the boy she'd known back then, searched in his face, in his eyes, and she wasn't sure if that boy was still there. That joy, lightness, that wicked playfulness that had made her laugh and snort, must still be buried there. The strength and confidence, yes, that was stronger and brighter than even before, but the joy, where had it gone? Hopefully it was still there, embers of it deep in his soul, just waiting to be rekindled. Maybe, they both needed to work at making the other laugh. He probably was wondering where that teasing, laughing, dancing girl had gotten too.

As a room was prepared for Elizabeth and Anne to share, Frederick had fallen asleep in a chair in the library, a book of planetary transits and ship navigation on his chest. He hadn't awoken when she had very lightly kissed his lips, he hadn't started as she ran her fingers down his jacketed chest. She still felt the feeling of his sleep soft lips on hers, as she and Elizabeth went up to the room next to the mysterious child wizard.

Elizabeth rolled over in the big bed and looked at Anne seriously. "Why not just jump into your lover's bed and just have it done with? You wouldn't need me then. You'd be in the house and the girl would be safe. And you and your … mongrel… would be all happy." Elizaabeth flashed a sudden mean smile. "Rutting like…"

"Elizabeth!" Anne hated it when E got mean. Since mother had died, she was mean constantly.

"What, the stupid rules of society did _not_ stop our mother. She took _whatever_ man she wanted." Elizabeth smiled. "She was very discreet about it, of course." A quiet whisper, even Elizabeth realizing that was a deep secret.

Anne said nothing. Was that why Elizabeth was so bitter? Their father, the man they _called_ Father, had he been blind to mother's affairs, and to her magic, and to his "_daughters_"? He'd said nothing as three children came; now, Anne, as her reading and understanding of the world widened, realized that most likely he and her mother had _never_ shared a bed. Did he truly believe children just appeared with the stork?

He was blind to most everything, except the Barontage, house decorating and those above him whose notice mattered to him. He'd thankfully had been totally oblivious to Penelope and her quite forward hints and flatteries, and her spillingly audacious dresses (unlike cousin Elliott), Father had been too busy scrambling after their cousin the Dalyrimples and redecorating the house on Laura Place. With a disquiet in her belly, Anne wasn't so sure if he was totally oblivious to that new footman.

Father's blindness could be good. His wife and daughters had used it.

In the early mornings, as the mists rose over the fields, yet to be burned off by the summer and autumn suns, he'd never seen his wife and chidren riding out dressed as boys. Nor, later, Anne riding out alone, Just as she had done with her mother and Elizabeth when a small child. He'd never seen her practicing magic.

When she had been 18 he had not noticed her with a totally unsuitable dark-eyed sailor boy who spouted bad poetry to her; rather Father was totally busy with a visit from the Fitzwilliam cousins, Darcy and Georgiana too. Fitz' had encourage Anne's affair, Darcy had lectured her on it, but finally said nothing to her father, just haughtily ignored Frederick. Her sailor had only just been a lowly commander then. She smiled, maybe Darcy would deign to know him now that he was a rich post captain, just as Father had.

No, her father had never noticed her attention to Frederick. Father had not seen her interest blossom into a passionate, maybe inappropriate affair with Frederick, the gossip of both the underhouse and the neighbors.

Frederick had gotten quite brazen, one night he even braved the dogs and showed up at her window, tossing pebbles against it. What a night that had been, running, laughing barefoot over the grass under the stars of August, in her nightdress (but her hidden tattered boy's riding pants underneath). That night Frederick had told her of all the stars, and how he steered ships by them as they sat on a hill looking at the milky way. She told him the stories of the heroes and maidens in the stars, of the Andromeda, Orion, Pegasus. She didn't tell him that her mother had taught her to read the future from them. She didn't read their future, that night, one small blessing from the Lady.

Late that summer her father had _not_ seen her fall sick, after she broke off the engagement with Frederick. Nor did he see her fall into a deep despair that almost sent her into the arms of death. He did not see her give up all friends, all magic, all hope.

Fathers blindness's could be used. His pride, no. If she could have used that, they might not have been driven by money from Kellynch.

She rolled on her side, laid her hand on Elizabeth's cheek. Her sister's profile in the moonlight, so regal, so perfect, so unlike Father's, Mary's or Ann's. Elizabeth's beauty was breath taking, it was startling. Her hair, perfect deep gold, straight and thick, her skin porcelain pale with a touch of pink, her eyes, luminous smokey blue-violet, lips plump and pink. So different from the wavy brown hair and brown skin of Anne and her younger sisters Mary, nut like reflections of their mother. When summer hit, the two almost as dark as gypsies. Not one of them looked like their "_father_", Sir Walter Elliott of Kellynch Hall.

Who was Elizabeth's father? Obviously, from her strong magic someone from a family of very pure lineage. Too, not the same father that Mary and Anne had. Anne knew the Matron at Chetwhyn House kept the family and breeding lineages recorded, something of a stud book for the Elven. She supposed she could write and ask.

Elizabeth turned and looked at her, eyes serious. "Sister, if you want him, just take him. Stop being so…. Missish. I'm sure he just went off and bedded all the women he wanted."

Anne closed her eyes tight, wanted to scream and slap her sister.

"You, sister, need to be… need to act, to live, to be, and not just be such a wet rag." Elizabeth whispered.

Anne hated it when E used metaphors from the future. Some made no sense, but that one she understood. Frederick did lay not too far away, she _did want_ to rise, walk barefoot into that room, blow out the candle next to his bed. But that was not how a lady was raised, nor how a lady acted.

Time to change the conversation. "So what do _you_ want, sister?" Anne asked her elder sister instead.

"Haa. I've yet to see the man…" Elizabeth voice was cold, fell silent.

"What?"

"Nothing. Go to sleep." Elizabeth closed her eyes tight, but still saw a brazen grin smiling at her, laugh lines cut deep around hazel eyes, sandy hair pulled back in a pony tail. She, more tired than she realized, mumbled, "Why does Croft keep his footmen barefoot? So that they won't run away?"

A sudden start, had she just revealed too much to Anne? "Oh, too, heads up, sister. Cousin Elizabeth is coming to town."

"Oh." Anne said in a small voice, mostly asleep.

_My dear, dear __always__ so upright and perfect sister,_ Elizabeth thought, in her Meanest Miss E voice. _Always perfect Anne. __Wonderful Miss Perfect must be tired." _She smiled._ "No, _the kinder "E" thought, who was still there, still buried deep, mostly around in the 1920s and 1930s though_, she is exhausted to the edge of sickness if she had thrown three or four perfect spells tonight. And w__ithout practice for years. Mother always said Anne was so much more powerful than she knew_.

She had thought Anne had quite given it up the practice of magic, since… Elizabeth frowned… since mother's death, and but most importantly, since '06, and that cocky black-haired sailor's retreat.

Elizabeth listened as Anne's breath fell into the gentle even breath of sleep.

Why had she promised Mother _to "always watch over Anne, always protect her"_? She had tried.

She'd been gone the summer of 1806, had been in New York, trying to solve the mystery of the disappearance of her people from the face of the planet. New York of the 1930s - Jazz, art, cocktails, women writers and photographers. Women as editors.

Paris in the 1920s. She had never wanted to leave that either.

1806\. England. Anne falling ill, almost into the arms of death. Sucky Regency England, stupid rules, stupid clothes, bad food, no books. No toilets! Terrible teeth. No proper running water. Coming back to heal Anne in autumn of 1806 because of a stupid promise to a Mother who left them, who went and died on them. No movies, no motor cars, no cigarettes. No telephones, no jazz. No education for women. Stupid father.

England, 1815, not any better. Even the battlefields of the Somme in 1916 had not been so bad in her dear, cranky mud covered ambulance.

Elizabeth scowled at the room she knew held _him_. The source of all her misery.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER - Befuddled Dreams

(Sorry everyone having problems getting this to load! I am a total idiot when it comes to computers.)

Frederick woke on the couch with a start. His head was splitting. How…What?. A blanket of wool was thrown over him. A mostly empty bottle of whiskey on its side, at the foot of the couch, a spilled glass lying next to it that somehow missed the Persian rug. Grey light seeped through the crack in the curtain.

Not the first time this had happened since… well, the war, since putting ashore, and since bad nights. His head throbbed so bad his nose felt as if it were about to bleed. Too many nights like this in Portsmouth, after the fighting and peace declared; too many nights like this in Lyme after Louisa's fall; always wondering if he had not caught her on purpose or had he just been distracted as Bennick's hand hovered towards Anne's face and that rebel strand of hair playing in the wind?

He lay there, confused, head pounding. He didn't remember falling asleep on the couch.

What he remembered breaking glass, blood flying, a fight… the scream of … No- that was only a violent nightmare, a ghost of a dream. It could only be. He glanced around the room, all was normal.

There was no old sword anywhere, there was no overturned furniture. There was no broken glass scattered on the carpet, no broken window, and no head of some creature… lying at his feet. No… white faced Anne Elliott standing by him, silent, a hand to her mouth, unblinking as she stared at him with a look in her face of pure love.

There had been no John Boyle in the park, there had been no wizards duelling, he had not brought home an unconscious child. He'd not sat up late in the library mulling things over, trying to understand things he could not really believe -startling things -ncluding Anne's hurt lost look. No, He'd he had not looked up into the the window and had not seen a horrible form looking pounding to get in, magics flashing with each beat of the creatures fists against glass that would not break, its magical defences strong. He'd definitely not leapt up, grabbed a glowing blue sword, shouted at Anne and Elizabeth Elliott to flee. He'd definitely had not turned to see both Jones and Long rush in, wands in hand, magical spells shouted at the monster.

In the dream the defensive magics failed, the beast burst through the window, glass shards flying. Massive and human form, scaled and hairy too, a face that was a nightmare, leapt through roaring. He'd not seen the beast stagger under hits of magic thrown by wands, magic thrown by Elizabeth standing behind the couch. He'd not seen the beast fall, then launch itself again at them. He'd not glimpsed Ann Elliott starting to draw up a great curse behind him, eyes closed in concentration, mouth working. Only in a dream had he leapt forward, swiped at the scaled and glistening monster, stinking of the sludge flowing through Bath's sewers. A swipe of a clawed hand catching his free arm, cutting deep, that had been a dream. He'd spun, and turned it into a thrust and a swipe, his sword arm flashing, taking off the creatures head.

That all had only been just a nightmare. He rolled over and dry heaved. Nothing came up.

He glanced around. There, in the morning light there was only a whiskey bottle lying its side on the floor, mostly empty, wrinkled clothes from the day before on his body, a stubbled jaw. A gorgeous Persian rug, no blood, no stains. No sword, no sign of his beloved Ann having even been here.

It all had only just been dreams.

Nor had he ever set out to hurt her. Sophia surely had never rented Kellynch Hall with the Admiral, he'd not found himself living in Her house. Frederick had _never_ deliberately tortured herAnne by toying with a silly and selfish country girl. Too, he'd not ever written Anne _that_ letter, because _they_ had never sat at the White Hart separated by a sea of hurt. He'd never asked Anne to marry him, and she'd not accepted.

He would get up, walk out into the hallway of this particular house on Bath's Gay Street, and Sophia would be breakfasting there, looking through the list of the costermongers offer, and she would say, _"__Oh, __brother__, __not __again? __Another_ _Not another_ _late night with a bottle and book?_" Soph would look at him with that intense look of sadness, love and concern, that look that always felt like a punch in his gut, and as always he'd just grunt at her as he passed by.

He rose, the hall was empty. The sun high already and he stumbled towards his room. Falling into bed in his clothes he was asleep before his vest hit the floor.

Waking to a pounding head, aching body he rolled over and groaned. Ignoring the dried blood on the sleeve of his shirt he pulled off yesterdays' clothes. He didn't bother to ring the bell, a basin of water had been left there with cup of coffee next to it. Both were now cold. He took care of both, the cold water waking him. He noticed cuts on his arm, not deep, puckered around the edges. He must have been drunker than normal last night, couldn't remember how he got those horizontal gashes that still seeped a bit of blood.

He pulled on clean but well used pants and a shirt, didn't bother to button the shirt all the way up, didn't bother with a neckcloth, nor with shoes, just some thick wool sox. Since Sophie was not home, he was free rules.

He did, at least, run his fingers through his black hair. Had to be slightly respectable for the cook. Maybe he'd get it cut in the new fashion this week, seemed men wore it much shorter than the Navy did. He pulled it back in a loose but sloppy pony tail. He ignored the odd white strands.

The sun had already moved low in the western sky. Damn, Anne must think him… wait - _there was no Anne, there had been no fighting wizards, the boy who was a girl did not exist, nor had there been that creature forcing its way in last night_.

He would not drink… today. This week even, maybe it was time to give up the bottle, find religion like Edward had. He chuckled over the image of himself as a country curate. Maybe Sophie was right. Cut out drinking and think about what comes next – maybe go work for a merchant marine, sailing back and forth between England and the Baltic ports, hauling lumber and furs.

The house was quiet, empty. Clean. No broken furniture anywhere. No dead body of some man-monster.

Music echoed from below as he padded silently down the servant's stairs. The sound of fiddle and accordion rising up the stairwell, voices in song. As he turned the final turn to the service level he heard a loud swear and shout, and the sound of things falling, pots and pans, then laughter. Quietly he padded over to the the servants dining room just off of the cavernous kitchens.

He froze. Sitting, as if she had just fallen, full on the table, as if she had just fallen, was the girl who had been a the boy from his dreams.

She was dressed again like a boy, in her the heavy blue pants and the multi-couloured silk-like shirt from his dream. Her feet were bare too, except for sox, and scattered all around her on the table, rolled pots and pans. Her face was split in surprised laughter. Short, fat honey coloured curls flopped around her head. Her eyes were hazel, cheeks high and sharp, her nose pointy, Freckles freckles splashed across her cheeks. She couldn't be more than eleven. The smile, the laughing eyes looked familiar, reminded him of someone he knew well.

"OK," she snorted, "I can't juggle as many as I thought!"

Croft's old crew, no, the servants, were laughing uproariously. Mrs. Rickets, the cook, leaned in the doorway to the kitchen, laughing hard, pressing her round face into her short husband's shoulder, his arm pulling her tight against him. Long, holding a fiddle, was doubled over with laughter, while Carter, the driver, his wooden leg up on table, red faced was covered with tears of laughter, his accordion forgotten. A tall dark-skinned woman, sitting next to him in a mob cap and rough grey-blue dress pounded her fist into the table, smothering a laugh, and protecting her small beer from the rolling pots. Jones and White doubled over laughing. Beer mugs were all around on the table, some fallen.

The only one missing was tiny Deepa Ma, the Admiral's cook from India.

Suddenly it hit him like a blow to the belly.

If that child were here… if she/he were there, then there _had_ been that thing at the window. There had been Anne going to sleep in the best guest room. There had been the letter at the White Hart, she _had_ accepted his proposal -this time… they were to be married, and there had been a battle in the dark.

There had been a sword and a monster in the night. His stomach roiled. His head throbbed more, he needed coffee.

A lull, as they all grabbed breath, and he quietly coughed. "Any coffee…?" The quiet, deadly voice all crew could hear across the boards of a ship as a captain whispered.

Sudden surprised looks, and all jumped to attention, saluting, except for the girl and the unknown woman.

He returned a casual, sloppy, salute. "I see we have guests, and they're receiving a hearty naval welcome."

Long, ever the spokesman, coughed "Yes sir, Miss Mooro here was hungry, and followed Nurse Rooke down. Figured they'd stay down here and chat."

Looking at the child on the table, he could replace that face with any of the squeakers or young midshipmen on any of the boats he'd ever served. More than one had fallen slightly drunk while dancing on tables. He too had done so, at that age, more than once.

"_Mister_ Moreau," if she were dressed as a boy, she'd be treated as a boy, "While on the _Good Ship Gay Stree_t, dancing on the tables is not allowed."

The child scampered down guiltily. Long and Carter looked even more guilty, they knew better. Sophie would skin both of them if she caught wind of it. Dancing, yes,_ "On the stairs, on the floors, on the benches, but not the tables!"_ he could hear her his sister roaring. "_But NOT on the tables!"_

"Sir, Cap'n, sir. Cap'n Harville and Mr. Musgrove called this afternoon. Too Miss Anne and.." Ricketts started.

Frederick held up a hand, growled, "Hold. Silence." All went silent, watching him. "Ricketts, get me that head ache powder, Mrs. Ricketts, coffee please, and …

"Some oatmeal sir, had it waiting for you. Bread baked fresh too, fresh butter."

He smiled, as she turned away to get coffee. "Long, who is this woman?"

"Rooke, sir. Nurse Rooke. Miss Anne hired her…"

"Rooke, how is our patient?"

Keen eyes met his, eyes that had seen the world, its hurts and its good. "The scamp is fine. Weak, but fine."

The woman had clued into his decision to treat the visitor as a boy, until… whenever. Good sign. He'd keep her signed on. Always could use quick crew.

He nodded, settled in front of a place Ricketts set for him at the head of the long, scrubbed table. The sailors sat back down around him, quiet, eyes watching keenly for a captains mood. The child plopped as far from him as possible. Small beers were righted in front of them all. The coffee and powder for his head arrived together. He'd interview the girl and Rooke alone.

"Thank you, men, Mrs. Rickettes, Nurse, for the silence. Now, Long, can you bring me up to speed on the day. And last night? We had a visitor I believe. Left something behind?" He hoped.

"Repaired the window. Body of said intruder dealt with. Miss Anne and the ka… _Miss Elliott - _left to buy some items, they said. Nurse engaged by Miss Anne. The boy," he said, also taking Frederick's cue, "was well enough to come down looking for food and drink."

His eyes flicked to Nurse Rooke, to the child. Frederick nodded, he'd speak to Long alone.

Long interjected, "Sir, Note from your sister. The Admiral's brother passed. They arrived in time."

The nurse and Jones crossed themselves.

"Damn. Well, good, they made it in time." He swallowed the powder, sipped his coffee to choke it down. The light of the watery late afternoon sun even down here was too bright.

"Too, Sir, Harville called, with Musgrove. A card was left by Admiral McGillv.."

"Thank you." He cut off Long. "Ladies, men, my head is not…".

A small voice pipped up "Uh, mister, do you know what happened to my wan…"

"Sailor," Long, Croft's old bosun, roared, "We never interrupt a captain when he speaks."

The child pulled back frightened, but then mumbled. "This is important. The sword…"

The child was not without courage.

"Silence." Frederick growled, glaring at her. She shrank in her seat more. "We will talk."

Nurse Rooke laid a hand on the child's shoulder, leant over and whispered. "Hush love, you're turn will come."

"Anything else to report besides that?"

Long eyed him, a sparkle of humour in his face. "The _ladies_ _will_ be returning." Longs look at him was clear, a message sent and recieved of "_Captain_, _you look … no better than a common sailor on leave in a port town after a rough night_."

Frederick nodded. "Crew, prepare to be …, uhm, receive guests. Long, I will want a bath."

_"__Receive guests? Haaar. Boarded by the cat you mean?"_ He heard either Jones or White whisper to the other.

A discreet snort from another of the crew._"__Prepare to repel them."_

If Frederick didn't feel so stomach sick, he'd say something, but settled for a quiet order, "Just go and prepare to be invaded. I want all ship shape when they arrive."

A scraping of chairs, and multiple "Ayes…"

"Mrs. Ricketts, Nurse Rooke,…" This would be delicate. He glared at the child. "May I speak to the child alone?"

In proper society, in the lofty circles of Bath, of the Elliotts', the Dalyrimples, that of Anne and her sister, he could not speak to a girl child of this age alone. God, he missed naval life.

Nurse Rooke sat up straighter, looked him in the eye. "Sir, Miss Anne told me to tell you that I _can_ hear all. I have _been apprised of the full situation _by Miss Anne." She looked at him hard, "_Everything_."

Silence. He sipped his coffee and looked at the dark-skinned woman. Mulattoo? Octaroon? Hers was the faintest accent of the West Indies. How did Anne know of her? There was even more to his quiet fiancée then she let on to.

Mrs. Rickets, poured him more coffee, and plus herself some. She sat at his elbow. "Youse knows, sir, how the boys talk, Sir. Miss Anne brought me into the circle before their rumour mill could start in h'erntest. Bout _everything_ _everythin'_ too sir." Her eyes were big, still trying to process that there was a wizard child in the house and that _something_ had tried to get in last night.

He, for the life of him, could not understand what the big, capable, smart woman saw in the tiny, skinny, bumbling Rickets. There was true love and respect between the two, and on both sides, but if he was honest, he'd rather have Mrs., than Mr. Rickets, on his next ship. She'd was deadly with a pastry pin. He ignored rumours of her having been a gun captain under Croft.

A quiet peep from down the child raised her hand in a strange manner, and looked at him with beseeching eyes. "Captain. Guy, Mister, Sir, Whatever. My wand. Did you find a wand?! No one seems to know…" The child's voice was on the edge of panic, her accent he could not identify. Not British, but clear spoken English, fast and flat.

The hazy memories, or was that dreams of the night, the day before flooded him. Of things that shouldn't be. Trying to think about them made his head pound even more, pound so hard his stomach heaved. The memories the night before that, and the tensions, the worry of the weeks before that. Concentrate on this, he said. Just this. Right here, right now. Like the pain in his head that made him think his nose was bleeding.

"Your wand is safe. The Miss Elliotts' will return you your wand when they see fit." His voice barely over a whisper. It hurt to talk. The girl glowered at him, her breathing shallow. "First things, sailor. Your name, rank, home port."

The kid sat up. "Mia Moreau, student. Home Port… originally, Nunivut. I guess now, 'ogwarts."

His raised his eyebrow in question. Neither place meant anything to him. She looked at him like _he_ was dumb.

"Iqualuit? The Arctic Islands of Russo-Canada? And Hogwarts. You know _Hogwarts_… everyone does. Up in Scotland."

"Arctic Islands? The Arctic is a single landmass, a continent, covered by ice. There are no islands." He said firmly, stating the latest facts the British Naval Survey had released.

The child looked more stricken. "Sir, guy. Uh, Captain. Uh… what year is this?"

"February, 1815."

The child blanched. "No wonder your house doesn't speak. And no toilet paper. Stupid dresses for women. And No vid… The Eye ain't watching you either."

The three adults looked at her, understanding nothing.

"You don't even have washrooms." The child spat, as if they were primitives from a tropical forest.

"We have do have wash basins." snipped Mrs. Ricketts, "which you could use. No need to pee in the garden like a savage. And the day girls deal with the dirty linens."

"_Mr_. Moreau, _when_ should this be… ? when When did you think this was?"

"2089. Well, should be. That's when I am from." With a forlorn look she put her head on the table and started shivering. Nurse Rooke laid a hand on the small girls shoulder, then hugged her close, looked at him for permission. He nodded.

In a calm voice, soothing, she said "Cook Rickets, please if you may, a good strong broth to be sent up to Mr. Moreau's room. Captain, sir, excuse me, I'll take the child up…" The girls face was wet when they rose, all the earlier fiery spark gone from her eyes.

Finally, he was alone with hot buttered toast as the three slipped away. He stared at his scratches that would not stop oozing blood. _Hogwarts_ \- did the child mean the _Castle Collegium of Hogarth's_ of the wizards, north of the Scottish border, the sister school to Hogarth College at Cambridge?

Suddenly, a trilled "Ello, anyone home? Or did all the rats abandon ship here?" He cringed, his headache flaring. Miss Elizabeth Elliotts voice, faking the accent of a commoner.

He looked at his clothes, shirt mis-buttoned, one sock slipping to a rumpled mess on a foot, felt his stubbled chin. Said, to no one but the dust motes floating in a sunbeam in particular, "_Damn_."

**Chapter – A Darker Future**

He sat back in the winged backed chair near the fire, darkness beyond the crack of the curtain, just the three of them in the library. Ann looked at him, then at Elizabeth, a guilty and worried look on her face.

"Frederick, I am sorry. Long shouldn't have hit you with a forgetting spell, but… we didn't realize you'd been scratched by the _grean-dhal_."

Elizabeth laughed. "Besides, what does that broken down jack tar know of healing magics? Surprised he didn't give you warts."

His headache, his stomach sickness, had faded when Anne and Elizabeth together whispered "_Yaghhee_" and flicked their fingers at him. With a sudden wave of a clearing head, memory flooded in, memories of the last evening, of the past day, two days, two weeks, six weeks, the three months came flooding back. In there there was so much he would have preferred to have kept forgotten. Louisa Musgrove for one. He reached out, grabbed Ann's fingers.

"Oh god, Ann, forgive me…"

"Ever the lover." Elizabeth snipped. "So …"

"Fuck off, Elizabeth." He spat out, forgetting himself. Let the Cat think he was, indeed, the coarse naval type. Sophia would have slapped him hard if she were here.

Turning back to Anne, "Forgive me." He looked yearningly into Ann's eyes. Ann sucked her breath in, his look startled her. He truly meant it, he wanted her, Ann Elliott, to forgive him for the years apart, the little tragedy of Louisa, even for swearing at E. But he deserved her forgiveness...

"Please."

Anne reached out, cupped his face with her hands, surprised at how rough his face felt, unshaved. She was startled by his… undress, wanted to… to… where were her thoughts headed? What answer to give him? She leant forward instead, and just kissed him. Would he understand she had forgiven him utterly, already?

A retching sound from Elizabeth. "Must you two be so…. gross?"

Anne looked up, smiled and said, "Liza, shut up."

Elizabeth, seemed pleased to have her childhood name resuscitated, looked at the two severely. "See, Dear Captain _Dog_, a few days among the Naval type and my sister's behaviour becomes quite coarse, common and wanton."

Frederick pulled Anne to his lap. No kiss, instead he pressed her head against his chest, held her tight against him. Startled, she tried to pull away, but he held her firm. She, prisoner in his arms, relaxed, her cheek feeling the beat of his heart through the thin lawn of his shirt.

He grinned and his voice rumbled in his chest, "Ladies, no time for squabbling. And if _you_ don't start, Elizabeth Elliott, telling me what is going on, I will get quite wanton. I'll make sure it is indeed quite… gross."

His voice was rough, tired. Anne could feel the warmth of his skin against her cheek, the beat of the blood in his neck. She'd never been, since a small child, near a man whose buttons were slightly undone, without a waistcoat nor a neckcloth wrapped and tied in fancy knots. She blushed.

A knock on the door, and Long entered, followed by Moreau and Nurse Rooke. If Anne hadn't glanced at Long at just that moment she would have missed the raised eye brow and a smiling wink Long shot at Frederick. She tried not to be shocked by naval behavior.

Long and Nurse Rooke stood by the door, but with a small cry, the girl leapt forward.

"Mr. Captain, Sir." Moreau threw up some sort of sloppy mimicked salute.

"I gotta really get my wand and that sword… I thinks I can…" she reached out and grabbed Frederick's hand.

"Mr. Moreau, we do not interrupt _our_ betters." The ex-bosun grabbed her by the collar, pulled her back. Ann was startled how well an the tall man could imitate an upperclass accent, almost aristocratic.

"What d'ya mean? Better? He - a _better_ wizard than me? I _don't_ think so, buddy boy." Mia said, pulling free and glaring at the big man. " I got nothing but Firsts and my blood's pretty pure. That's why I got this mission. I didn't see _him_ beating off those death hunters."

Ann, startled, sat straight. Did she feel Frederick snort in laughter at the glare little Mia gave the big man?

Nurse Rooke stated flatly "Mr. Moreau, here, in _this_ place and _this_ time, unless you are the aristocracy, you stay silent, and wait for your betters – those above you in society, including adults - to speak first."

"Why?" She the child asked, simple curiosity.

"Because, child," Elizabeth voice was surprisingly gentle. "The world hasn't quite changed yet. Civil rights… is still something far, far in the future. Womens' rights? Haa. Rights for the _Irish_? Quite bigger Haa."

Elizabeth sat back, looked at Frederick with a challenge in her eyes, but a slow, laconic voice said, "The Scots? Catholics? Rights for lower class _men_? Not even a dream yet. Slavery is still in. Indenture, impressment –fancy words for the slavery of British whites, that's still in. Power here is held only by rich MEN, by the aristocracy, by the right of kings…. with the threat of death, violence to any uppity lower person - and their family. Power like that is enforced by the aristocracy's _goons_\- the king's Navy and Army."

Frederick sucked his breath in -was he just a brigand keeping a warlord in power?

Suddenly like a little terrier the child grabbed Elizabeth. "That isn't right!" Mia shouted, chin jutting out. "It's like the way they treated women in that bad time. Men thought they weren't no good for nothing back in them bad old days, except having babies. My time's way way better."

Ann sighed, "Elizabeth, see what you started?"

Elizabeth smiled, teeth barred at Ann and Frederick. She knealt down in front of a teary eyed but fierce Mia. "Darling child, them _bad old days_ is _now_." Elizabeth's voice was gentle.

Much to Ann's surprise, her sister hugged the child. "_We __Ladies of breeding... what, we __ladies_ have a vocation, work? We Ladies ... think? We ladies have original ideas? That we … the need to _grow_ as humans, men think is utter rubbish." Elizabeth's voice was quiet, gentle, and rich in sarcasm. "We have needs to grow? Haa. I don't think so, at least not in this damn wretched place and time."

She said it with a gentle bitterness that cut Frederick to the core. He looked at the three women, glanced at Long. Longs face was thoughtful, his eyes resting on Elizabeth. Were women's lives so terrible? Was there so little in the world for them? Were not just children enough for them? Would he become bitter, uneducated, unable to act in the world?

"Oh, what I would give for a cigarette and a cocktail, right now. And a pen." E sighed. She quirked a smile at the child. "And a room of my own."

Suddenly Mia smiled. "I know _that one_. Virginia Wolfe."

Elizabeth hugged her. Mouthed to Anne and Frederick, "Be gentle, she's lost."

Long smiled. "Madam tea is …" He waved at the freshly arrived tea pot.

"Exactly, it's _cocktail hour __somewhere_. Bring me the drink tray." Elizabeth ordered, standing up.

"No…" Frederick said, in his best captain's voice. "I want to know what is going on."

Mia burst in. "I got that sword… to bring to _February 17_. We _need_ that sword… in 2089 -to save the world."

"Well, yesterday was February 17, 1815." Anne let that sink into the child's mind. "Who were you to give that sword too? " She gently asked.

"I … don't know." The child started to cry. "I'm… just the _Bearer_, not the _Presenter_. The _Finder_ died. The _Presenter_ died." She sat down suddenly on a foot stool, her face lost.

Nurse Rooke pulled the child to her, smothering her face in her robes, holding her close, as the Mia's shoulders heaved. The adults looked at each other.

"Long, give the girl a brandy." Elizabeth said, settling. "with cream, sugar too. Then you can make me a cocktail."

The bosun/butler raised his brow, glanced Frederick.

"Hop to it." Frederick said,exasperated, snapped. "While the ladies are here - until Sophie returns, they are the mistresses of the house. Follow orders."

"Aye sir." Long nodded, knuckling his forehead with a long suffering look. He turned and mixed a drink for Mia, mostly cream, the tiniest splash of illegal French brandy, and gently gave put it into the girl's shaking hands.

"A cocktail Miss Elliott? Would you mean a slop of boozes just splashed together? Meant for _the cock and the tail_?"

Frederick choked back a roar at Long, just for the worth watching the look Elizabeth gave the man. Brothel talk was not allowed upon the Good Ship Gay Street -even downstairs.

He would talk read Sophie's Naval Rules to the man after this, though. With some of his own added in.

Mia piped up, still not tasting the cream in front of her. "Stupid stuff like that. That's why this place - this time- sucks. No equality. No rights. No streaming. No v-games. Why does Long get ordered around? He's the _best_ of you. He's smart. Capable."She wiped her eyes. "But at least there's horses. Can we go pet some?" Her voice cracked as she said that.

Anne went and hugged her, pulled her into her lap.

A sniffled sob from the girl. "And that _stupid_ dress. Why do you wear dresses? I suppose I got to say _thank you_ for getting it for me, but I h'ain't wearing it."

"And why not?" Elizabeth asked, her voice harsh. The small dress had cost the Elliott girls money they did not have, despite buying it from a discreet reseller of dresses.

"No dress? Want to be a young gentleman? Well in that case, _Mister_ Moreau, you learn to play the part of a good midshipman and start to listen to orders." Frederick rumbled. "First Order -– No no crying. Second Order: Answer Questions. How can we get you and your sword to your time?"

The child took a sip of the pale cream drink. Made a face, then decided she liked it, took another sip. Long handed Elizabeth a cocktail. She raised an eyebrow at him, possibly in appreciation, looking at a layered concoction of alcohols, sipped it.

Moreau said in a small voice "My history is a bit shaky. I'm only in Secondary-II – they advanced me cause I'm smart." The girl said proudly.

"So, if this is February 1815… let's see. That means Napoleon still kicking around I think. And kings still. But not for long."

"By 2070 climate change… pollution, overpopulation have ruined the earthEarth. The seas are dead. There's been a really big die off of species. And, since the 2060s, humans too. Dying off. The great Extinction Collapse. _C. difficile_ hitting us hard, then too the rise of the zombies with that mess up by DoD, Homeland Security and Glaxo-Kline, those creepy "_Forever-ists_". The Death Seekers, see, they like that, they like all the dying, the confusion, they like the zombies. Figure they can build a new world order. They drink souls, people say, too. Going We're going to total environmental collapse. Got some spaceships being built up at the Station. The Mind and the Eye thinks we've got jump-gates nailed, can move on, find new places."

Nothing she was saying meant anything, nor made any sense to Frederick. It was as if she were speaking Greek but using English words. Anne, Long and even Elizabeth looked confused. Rooke just looked horror stuck.

"What are you saying? What…" Frederick started to say, thinking how empty the world was, how wide the seas were, how full of life, of birds and fish whales and sharks. He'd sailed through seas where their ships had struggled to get through the pressing masses of fish playing on the surface around them. Why in places, men could almost walk over fish. Many of the other words the girl had used were just meaningless sound to him.

"Hush Captain." Elizabeth ordered, taking his earlier dictate that she was mistress of the house, to include him. Very unladylike she leant forward and put her elbows on her knees, like a sailor about to recount a tale, her ample bosom threatening to spill out. "Continue, child. What about _the sword_."

"The _Seer_, she said I needed to get the sword to February 17. I thought she meant our- _my year_. The Death-Seekers don't want us… to use it. They want the sword to stay hidden. Kimi Ohura died getting it from that lake."

The girl pressed her eyes shut, with the heels of her hands, as if she were trying to drive away a vision. Anne sucked in her breath, she had seen Frederick doing the same when he thought no one was looking, when a particularly bad memory hit him.

"She said Hannie W would be the _Cutter_. Hannie and Joe was captured by the DS…" her voice got quiet. "We- don't know -if she's still alive."

"So you need to get this sword to a person named Hannie, who you do not know if they are alive, in your time." Frederick said. "To save the world from the… Death Seekers."

The child nodded miserably. Frederick sat back, steepled his fingers. That was a heavy load for such tiny shoulders. He'd seen that same hopeless and scared look on squeakers and young mid-shipmen as the enemy ships came over the horizon.

"We will… help. In every way we can." Frederick rumbled quietly. He surprised himself when he said that, had _no idea how_ they could help. Keep the kid and the sword safe, - at least for the moment, he supposed until they thought of something.

Nurse Rooke looked up, stared at Elizabeth who nodded. The woman takeing that as permission asked, "Why don't the _Old Ones_ do this… rather than child wizards?"

"There _are_ no Old Ones. Hannie's got some pretty pure blood though."

Anne and Rooke hissed, Long dropped a cup with a clatter on a tray. "No Old Ones? What… can you be saying?"

Rooke and Long, both stricken, glanced at each other, faces pale. Frederick was confused.

Elizabeth leaned back, held out her glass to Long. He took it, turned back to the drink trolley, poured another. Was there a tremor in the usually collected man's hands?

Elizabeth took a sip. "August of 1945 … I could never travel further than Aug 5th of that year. None of us can."

"Why?" Frederick asked.

"I don't know…"

"The Bomb, miss." Mia's voice was small.

"The big bombs … Hiroshima, Nagasaki…. Atomics. They ended something…. . They killed the magic of the Old Ones somehow. It was like the blowing out of a candle by sudden gust, they sucked up the ancient magic from the Old Ones with them."

She sniffled. In an exhausted voices she mumbled, "Then that big spat between China, India and the United North America. 2032."

Still on his lap, Anne could feel Frederick breathing shallowly. She'd seen his horror, his utter gut- fear with flashing lights of the wands as the wizards fought, masked by his pure bravery. She remembers remembered his fright during lightning storms, even back in '06, brave despite his terror, but she remembered catching such visceral deep fear in his body as he protected her, not thinking of himself.

"A single bomb that can destroy a city?" Frederick's face was stricken, as if he were remembering a bombing of a city. "What's atomic? 1945? Only 130 years hence? One like that could be used on London?"

The child was silent, then miserably mumbled, "The Battle of Britain - everyone kept waiting for the Germans to hit London with one of those first. The American's beat the Germans to the trigger- they hit Japan with one. Ended WWII with it."

Ann sat up straight, her mind working. "We need to stop this…" Standing, she let go of Frederick's hand, went to the library desk and pulled out Mia's purplish wand, using paper to protect it from her fingers. When she handed it to Mia, who looked relieved, safer, happier.

Frederick, his face white, said, "We can only attack… from here. From now. With what we know. And I need to know more."

Turning, he looked at Long and at Rooke. "First of all, _what_ are _you two_."

"Seriously Frederick? You haven't figured it out?" Elizabeth snorted. "Puh-lease, and you play at being oh so smart."

"No, dear C_at_." Frederick spat, Ann sucked in her breath, Elizabeth's eyes narrowed. Direct hit.

"No, I haven't figured it out." He took a drink. "But I have come to the realization that these two are wizards as well as Jones. Long… have you _always_ been one?"

Long stood taller. "Yars, sir. As is Carter. The Capn's wife, well - the Admiral's wife now - she seemed to have an eye for.. us kind. She…." The man suddenly looked bashful. "She recruited his crews, ya knows."

Frederick nodded, tried to ignore Ann's sudden interest. Sophie had an excellent eye for the best crew, even if the package it came in seemed a bit coarse or was even broken. He had known that Sophie had been very active in shipboard operations, probably one of the reasons Will had been so successful a captain. Not one, but two captains on that ship, and he knew where Will's orders came from. A rumour had got to Frederick's ears that she even worked as a gunner captain below boards when need rose. He'd absolutely refused to listen to the one about her being part of boarding parties, had never asked her about a particular scar. He had preferred to think she got that mishandling scissors to make a dress; at least, that is what he told others, thought it most likely it came from repelling borders.

His own crews had always been top notch as well. With a shiver, he realized that he too, had always looked for something special when he searched for crew, choosing on the docks, in the quotas, or even the dreaded impressments. There was just a little something that would catch his attention in a man's bearing, a boy's gaze, a carter's voice. Something in his belly that would say to him, _C__hose that one_. How many wizards had he had on working on his own boards?

Looking back, there were actions where he and his ships should not have come out of. The ship should have sank or been ruined; but somehow it didn't founder, somehow blazing cannoned balls missed masts and sheets and ship sides, seemed to go off course as cannons fired upon them, the spars and masts might break, but were so quickly fixed. Sniper's bullets always went wide, thrusts of knives and swords never bit too deep. Frederick's ship always floating at the end of an action, maybe demasted, while other ships on the line sank around him, or burned to the water line as crew screamed in agony.

Frederick shivered again.

Had the Navy or Whitehall known? Frederick thought it was just _him_, thought that he was a good captain with nothing to loose; a captain with brains, with cunning and ambition and an excellent lively class frigate in the _Lacona - _plus blessed with a large dose of luck_._

But then there had been the _Asp_. Broyle had been right. It _should_ have _sunk_… not too far from Portsmouth either. He had _wanted_ it to sink in 1806. He had wanted to go to the bottom, and even _wanted to be damned_ for taking others with him, innocent crew. Had magic held the _Asp_ together, had magic been his luck?

Elizabeth's snort interrupted his musing.

"Brother-to-be, you are so arrogant, so self-certain, by the way, and so wilfully stupid sometimes." Elizabeth voice was cold as she sipped her drink.

"Rooke, is a wizard, Jones a wizard. Long, a wizard."

She leant back languidly on the seat, stared at him, "And too, one Frederick Wentworth, post captain of the Royal Navy, is a wizard. Else wise you could not have wielded _that_ sword last night - nor slain a _grean-dahl_."


	5. Chapter 5

**MIA AND ANNE'S Most EXCELLENT ADVENTURE**

"No, you're doing that wrong. You want your legs apart wider."

Anne felt herself blush, but did what Mia said. The wind felt cold between her thighs, the tattered pants she wore had a hole in the seam. It was the third time she'd put these on and they still felt strange.

"Yeah, and slouch some more. More. Come on, you're trying to be a boy."

Anne laughed. It was true boys -young men- did slouch, especially when leaning against a low wall. Too, they often kept their legs wide apart, as if their groins were of particular importance to them. After three forays of sneaking around as a young man she though she was doing it better. Obviously not.

Their strange young visitor, dressed in a tattered boys jacket, scratched her red nose and nodded as Anne slouched properly. Anne closed her legs a bit more, but it was nice to take a big deep breath and not have a short stays pulling her chest tight. Cheeks, nose, fingertips were cold, Anne pulled the knit cap lower over her ears, with hopefully, a sullen teen's scowl. They stood, their backs to a brick wall, watching her own house in the cold, watery sun of a an early February afternoon.

Mia had quickly recovered from her magical attack, Elizabeth had helped the girl by working gentle magics. Then said girl had gotten very bored. After several days healing in the house suddenly she was like a trapped wild animal needing release. In a whispered hush she had suggested an adventure for herself and Anne - "Hit the streets as boys, go see the sights. Bath! Jane's Bath!"

Something had made Anne agree. It was completely unlike her. Maybe it was triggered by Frederick and Mia's easy camaraderie and laughing companionship, as he treated the strange visitor like a young boy. She suddenly knew she very much wanted something like that between herself and Frederick, an easy, laughter filled friendship. Maybe she could understand him better, the darkness he now carried on him, if she could understand a mans life better. So Anne had agreed. Besides, she might learn some skills she might need aboard ship when he took her away, and was desperately bored.

The first time they'd quietly snuck off to teach Anne to play a boy, Mia had pulled "boy" off instantly. Anne hadn't, it had been an utter disaster according to Mia. Because of that Mia would not let her out of the little stable behind Sophie Croft's house. The next time they'd made it as far as the garden, while everyone was away, and even did a short saunter up and down Gay Street, but they'd stayed on the block. Today, a bigger test - the streets of Bath.

Anne shivered - what would Frederick think? Suddenly she laughed. Great gods, to quote Mr. Musgrove, w_hat_ would Lady Dalyrimple think? She tried not to contemplate father's shock and Lady Russell's censor. Mrs. Musgrove would probably just laugh, rocking in her seat.

"No.. you still have it 're too…" Mia said, "Do you guys do theatre in school? Like learn to act?"

Anne tried to not betray her shock. "It's not tasteful to act, to partake in theatre pieces." She blushed again, "Only…those who…"

"Oh yeah. That's right..." Mia slapped her forehead in a very boyish way. "L_adies_ of _the night_ used to act. I remember that... another stupid thing about the past."

Mia leaned against the wall picking her teeth with a twig, somehow a "tough little street urchin" so fierce yet in need of a good meal and good hug, too, a bath. With her grey wool tuque pulled low around her ears at a jaunty angle, Mia could have been any of the delivery boys in Bath. She stared at Anne, her cheeks red with cold, her pale blue eyes bright, but filled with frustration.

"The way I did this was I was watching that delivery boy... then I pretended I'm' _that_ delivery boy. My teacher - Miss Markell -used to say in Darth Vader's voice, "J_ust Channel someone Luke. Luke, Pretend you are them_." She did a great Darth. So I'm the delivery boy. Call me Jim."

Anne sometime could only understand 40% coming out of the Mia's mouth, thought the girl spoke English. "Ok ... Jim."

Mia smiled, and with a raspy boy voice asked, "So who are you channeling, what guy?"

"Oh... I don't really know... any - _guys_." She smiled, time for a lesson about 1815. "I know gentlemen."

Mia looked confused. "But there's guys all around. The guys who work in the house, your boyfriend. He's a sailor guy, and don't ya know others? You have a brother? The gardener here, the guys who drive the horses. Don'cha got a dad?"

Anne blushed, and leaned against the wall, trying to mimic "Jim". She couldn't bring herself to snap off a twig and stick it between her teeth though.

"I, ahem, don't really _know_ any _men_, properly, except for my father, Sir Thomas, Squire Musgrove and his son Charles. The rector, the sexton and the vicar. Frederick, of course." She fell silent. Who else did she know? She barely remembered Lord Russell. The old man in the bookstore, if he was still there, over on Milsom Street. Curate Wentworth, Frederick's older brother, she had known well for a while, but he was always so upright and cool. Not the sort of man to sit on a wall in Bath in raggedy clothes in a cold, damp February afternoon. "The Admiral."

She did not consider Long, Jones and Rickettes, Sophia's "crew", nor Sheppard, her father's lawyer, nor Mr. Butler, the butler at Kellynch as quite models to base her personage upon. There were the stable hands but of course, she would not admit to even knowing their names, though she did. "There's Gard'r, the gardener."

"Well channel one of them."

"But they are all old."

Mia smiled. "Annie," she had started to call Anne that when they were all alone, else wise it was _Miss Anne_ to avoid a clout from Frederick or Long. Anne hadn't realized she had missed that name. A name used by both her mother and a young Frederick. With sadness she realized he'd not yet revived that _Annie, they both _still had healing to do.

"Annie, imagine one of them... well, when they were16 or 17." The girl paused, looked at her, thinking. "You're funny though. It's like you are acting a fake person all the time and the real Miss Anne, that Annie inside, is channeling someone. But...,but that person aint' who you was supposed to be… And you ar channeling someone so old too. Some stiff necked old lady." Mia considered her. "I think you need to get young again…"

Startled by the girls words, Anne heart clenched, then she smiled. She would have kissed the child if they were alone. She had indeed "parked growing" herself the last 8-1/2 years, and had settled into the role of old maid, spinster, everyones aunt. "Haa, I think an angel sent you."

Startled, the child smiled, then looked serious. "So if we are gonna do this , you gotta channel some guy from ...I dunno, who is still a kid at heart."

Anne thought instantly of Charles Musgrove. Despite being the father of her two nephews there was something childlike and endearing about Charles. _But no_... that was not the man she'd choose.

Who else?

When she'd first met Frederick he'd already past the cusp of manhood. Despite his youth and age he had been a hard and experienced man, grown that way through war; he'd been dangerous yet cultured and well travelled, yes, there had been still flashes of a boy in him, a silly boy at that when she knew him then. But by 23 he'd been a man who had already killed, who had lead others into battle. He had most definitely not been _at all_ like the country lads she knew. There was a fire and a hardness to him she could never pretend to have.

The Admiral, William Croft. What had he been, once, before Sophie?

He'd been a country lad from Somerset once. A gentleman's grandson, but only an inn-keepers son, his genteel mother almost disowned. Crewkeherne, not too far from Kellynch. What would he have done, how would he have felt the first time he stepped into the bustle of Portsmouth to find the ship he had a letter for? She rolled her shoulders, slouched a bit, bit her lower lip, and stuck a finger in her ear, and scratched it. Pulled it out, looked with interest at it, then turned to "Jim" and with a long Somerset drawl of the merchants and farmer's from Kellylynch said, "Naw, no brains this time. Maybe next time."

Mia laughed.

"Nice to meet ya. Names Billy. I'm... 'oping to get a ship, get made a mid-shipman. Me h'uncle knows a man in the Navy."

Jimmy/Mia socked Billy-Anne in the shoulder. Instead of yipping, Billy punched Jimmy back, then said "Oww." and shook his hand.

"No, I am sorry sir, both Miss Elliott and Miss Anne are both out."

"Well, please let them know I called." Frederick passed the baronet's butler his card, slightly insulted to _not_ be invited into the house. Damn it, he'd head over to Milsom Street, maybe the two women were shopping.

As he turned he caught site of two scruffy boys that he could have sworn had been hanging around the Gay Street house. Maybe he was wrong, those two scamps had worn dark flat caps. These two had old knit toques on, the kind worn in cold weather sailing, the younger boy lost in a tattered jacket too big for him, not the raggedy overlarge fisherman's sweater the other had worn on Gay Street.

He looked hard at the older lad. A slight, dark lad, no more than sixteen he thought. He stopped for a moment, certain he knew him, but realized maybe he had met someone that looked like the boy. The younger child appeared to be only about 10 or 11 and spun away with a shout and poked a stick into a hole in the wall. Had he spotted a rat? Together they both turned their attention to a dark chink in the wall as if a whole world of excitement lay beyond.

Frederick swore at the Baronet's closed door then strode off. He had a meeting with Charles Musgrove to keep.

"That was close Anne. You didn't need to stand there mooning at him."

"I … I was startled." Anne had forgotten how beautiful could Frederick look with the rare winter sun hitting his features. His skin was dark, walking outdoors, riding in the sun, lines deepening around his eyes where he squinted into the sun, a hard manly set about his mouth. That was not the face of a soft, bored -and boring- country gentleman. Frederick was so completely unlike her father. Her beloved splashed and spilled command, strength, and intelligence. She suppressed a phrase Mia had taught her, but yes, he was that too.

"Come on, we need to keep trailing him. Let's switch into the other jackets first." Mia pulled out the two beat-up and tattered coats from the canvas sack that Anne had bought at a store near Mrs. Smiths, but threw a concerned look at Anne.

"Ann, you're certain you want to do this?" Mia asked as they trotted after Frederick.

Anne looked at Mia, a little frightened. She tried recall why were they doing this. After repressing her own magic for years, after repressing _everything_ about herself for years, when the magic burst forth the other evening, it seemed to rip so much from her, including that thick caul of suppression, repression and depression she'd wrapped around herself to protect herself from death and loss. The magic roared and raged and rippled within her now, even though she was so very far from Kellynch, burning so much away. Over the past few days, watching Mia with Frederick together, as they joked and sparred, bantered and traded words, Anne realized she wanted something like that between herself and Frederick.

She wanted that easy camaraderie, simple friendship and too, she wanted great passion. She wanted it all.

As she had sat in contemplation by her fathers window one morning waiting for Frederick to come and take her for a walk, she had realized that she wanted to be alive again, strong and deep and joy filled again. Anne Elliott, at almost 29, knew this time, that needed to come from within herself, not from that beautiful passionate man who always was dancing with death, standing on a possibly sinking ship or in the sights of a cannon or gun.

Anne Elliott had to become her own captain.

Sitting there, waiting, she thought about her life. Anne had always been bright. After her mother's death and seeing how alone she was with Elizabeth always gone, Father distant, Lady Russell not Mother, she had decided she would become the perfect country miss. She would, with the death of her mother, deny her own magic, become the perfect god-daughter Marie Russell longed for.

Magic would be dead to her. She would become normal.

She would work hard and become an exceptionally accomplished young woman - a proper gentlewoman, not one of the "witches" of the land. Her French, Italian, German and Latin would become fluent and fluid. Her Spanish and Greek, less so, but who, if one was cultured, truly spoke either those, if you were a lady? She painted and drew but poorly, but made up with it by being a better than average musician. She could play the harpiscord, harp, the spinnet, the pianoforte, the viola, the harp. She played all very well, and even took joy, great joy in it. She would even play the tin whistle and the drum, play the ancient country tunes for the old crofters who lay sick in their beds while she made her visits about Kellynch.

Surprisingly she had finished her schooling as the best archer, having been in keen competition with one very spoiled Emma Woodhouse, during that girls one year at that horrid school in Bath. No one but her cousin Ellie Steventon knew that she was also a pretty good shot.

She had trained hard in managing a house, and if she had been the one to replace her mother, she would have run Kellynch and its 273 servants, gardeners, farmers, herders, shepherds, plowmen and boys, milk maids, crofters, goose girls, cheesemakers, potters, barrel makers, smiths, foresters, grooms, drivers, cattlemen and pig-keepers with both care and a vision, just as her mother had. Kellynch would have stayed a prosperous place, would have been even a growing concern.

But Father had insisted that the "great house" was Elizabeth's role until she married. Elizabeth hadn't cared at all for that role. Instead, Anne's sister had flitted from country great house to country great house, hunting for husbands; but mostly, Elizabeth had flitted through time and across space like a constant "tourist". Paris and New York, 100 years hence, were her favourite places to visit.

Since 1802 Elizabeth had partied across both time and space, while Anne learned and worked however she could. She slowly slipped into a role like all the girls from her school - trained to become the wife of a great man in a great house, and if that did not work, to become a useful spinster.

_Spinster_ – both of her sisters had called her that to her face recently. Sitting there Anne realized she was done with spinster. If Frederick didn't work out she would leave, go somewhere, become a governess. Maybe her second cousin Georgiana needed some improvements in her Italian and German out at Pemberly. Maybe she could go to the continent and teach English to a distant cousin, or a Hapsburg daughter.

_Spinster_. That was not the child her mother had been raising. Most definitely not.

No, Elizabeth Steventon, Lady Elliott, had been raising witches, powerful and free witches. Young witchlings raised wild and unfettered, magical sprites dancing in the forests of Kellynch, running over the fields in the morning dew with their mother, one of the greatest Old Blood witches in the south of England.

Anne could picture Mother still, dressed like a young man in a gorgeous brocade coat, astride her grey horse. Annie and Lizzie, her "two darling little bairns", following on fat ponies dressed like little boys. Mother taught them basic magics: the strengths of trees, life-magic drawn from the growing world, the fluidity of water, the power of wind, the solidity of rock. She taught them to sing the land and the waters of Kellynch. Late at night she taught them the stars and the seasons, the right way to honour the elementals, the fire's dance and the transformations it brought.

Just before her sudden illness Lady Elizabeth Elliot had started to teach them the magics of blood. She had gone further and deeper with Elizabeth as she became a young woman, teaching her eldest of the blood and the moon. Then when the girls were ready she had planned to reveal the magics of sex and death.

That had not happened, death snatching her too fast to even ask another to step in and take the girls into those magics.

Anne's dearest memories of her mother were of stopping and sitting on banks of the little brook where the trout splashed, her mothers strong warm arm pulling her close, Elizabeth laying across mothers lap, as Mother sang ancient ancient songs in the summer light, the girls light voices following her. Mother taught them the songs of birds, the way to speak to deer and horses and cattle, the rabbits and the foxes. She told them of the time of the great ice, and its melting, of the Śidhe who had left after the great battles with Caesar. She taught them the magic of stars and flowers, and of healing and of poison.

Most importantly, Anne thought, Mother had taught the girls to respect life and the animals and plants of the forests and fields.

There had been no fox hunts at Kellynch then. Charles now hunted their lands as did Sir Thurlow and the Crickhern hunt. Elizabeth, after that sudden dark day of Mother's death, just did not seem to care about anything. Anne had felt powerless and too dis-interested to stop the hunt after her mother's death, and most importantly, after she broke with Frederick.

Anne realized now that her mother had laid down enchantments and glamours, protecting the land and her daughters and the people of Kellynch, as the women of her line had done since the great walls of ice melted back, the glaciers turned into rivers. The girls had not strengthened those magics - Anne had been too lost in pain and sunk in sadness, Elizabeth running away all the time, angry at the house, the land, at Mother.

Here, now in Bath, it felt good being a boy again, Anne thought, not an empty, cool, collected facade of a cardboard woman. It was a tiny rebirth. Dressed as a boy, with a slight glamour of magic laid over them both, she could run, skip and even walk through the streets of Bath as much as she wanted - unaccompanied.

So, where to start? Dressed in tattered boys clothes with a rip in the inner seam she felt alive, as she'd last felt 8-1/2 years ago. This time though, she was would remain in the drivers seat, no matter if "the gig she drove" tipped or not.

She smiled. Maybe, like Sophia Croft, it was time to learn to drive a gig.

With a shout, she punched "Jimmy" in the shoulder, just for the fun of it, then dashed away. Mia caught up and whacked her. With a smile they settled down, and turned to following Frederick as he headed into the centre of Bath. They kept their distance, kept him in site, but never too close.

Turning a corner they raced forward. Fredrick was nowhere to be seen, the narrow side street empty, just a cat crossing at the end of it.

"Oh... cool! Look- a gun shop! Says _Swords, Guns, Cigars_! Bet ya he's there. I'd go there if I was a captain an' had sum money."

Anne froze, leaned against a wall, Mia dashed over, snuck under the window, peeked in, did two thumbs up that Anne took to mean he was in there. Racing back Mia dragged her to the corner. The cold, bitter February wind had picked up even more, almost taking her breath away. Anne shivered.

"We'll wait here."

"What was he doing?"

"Looking at little guns - teeny hand guns. Is the Captain rich?"

Anne looked at Mia. She pulled her coat tighter around her, looked at the shop. "We don't... here and now, talk about that. But yes, he is rich, I suppose."

"The captain can buy what he wants, what he needs, if that is what you are asking." Anne frowned. He could buy things even if he didn't need to. She could have used a warmer jacket at the moment. Gloves. No money for that. She tucked her hands under her arm pits like she'd seen labourers do.

Mia nodded wisely.

Anne spun suddenly, stuck a finger in a hole in the mortar, as she had once watched a match boy do, as if the world was much more boring than a vastly interesting mortar needing to be picked away from bricks. She remembered she'd cast a glamour of _do not see us,_ and they were dressed as boys. but when Charles Musgrove brushed by her with a grunted "_Watch it_" she shivered. He bounded through the gun makers door with a shouted, 'Frederick, damn man, you beat me here."

"Was that Musgrove?" Mia asked startled. Anne nodded, then they waited. And waited.

"So remind me, why are we here?' Mia said, suddenly bored by their game, maybe thoroughly chilled to the bone too.

"We're here to see if I can play a boy well enought that no one who _knows_ me recognizes me...".

"Well success then - your boyfriend didn't see you! Neither did Musgrove. Lets go home. I'm hungry and cold." Mia whined. She looked tired.

Suddenly Anne's thumb pricked, as if someone had stabbed it, and a shiver ran across her shoulders. It pricked hard again and she tried not to yelp.

A slow black carriage trundled down the road. It pulled up in front of the gun makers. Anne watched with trepidation, fascinated and yet repelled and frightened, waiting to see who would get out of this well appointed and elegant carriage.

Colonel Wallace, her cousin Elliott's good friend, descended.

"I tell you this is the best place to buy guns..." he said turning to another man, older, tall and barrel chested. He had large arms, the biggest hands Anne had ever seen in her life, and got out stiffly. His unruly grey-brown hair bristling over face and cheeks caught the wind and a deep scowl made him ugly. Both wore the bright red coats of the army. The older man was quite obviously a general by the look of him.

Anne started and pulled back into a darker corner as, a slim, dark elegant man dressed for a day's visiting of fine ladies, of medium height leapt out with a _whoof_. Her cousin, Walter Elliott, turned to Wallace.

"What we need is a cannon..." William Walter Elliott grumbled in his clear elegant voice.

"Elliott, my lad, a gun will do you fine." riposted Wallace.

As they turned to enter the gun shop Charles tumbled out, followed by Frederick. "Brilliant piece, isn't Frederick. Told you it would be..."

Suddenly Frederick stopped, his wide shouldered form filling the doorway. "Elliott." He nodded, his voice cold.

Anne's cousin said nothing, just stared, eyes narrowing. Finally he offered the barest nod, almost imperceptible.

He wasn't a baronet yet, and a rich post captain had weight, consequence and presence in Bath. Frederick's commanding and haughty look demanded more. As Elliott's nod deepened Anne could feel a cold poison spilling off of her cousin and cool disdain from Frederick.

Frederick frowned, nodded, ignored the others and followed Charles into the strong wind, with a slow confident saunter as if the wind were yet another element under his control.

"God damn..." Hissed cousin Ellliott.

"Ah yes, the _god damn_ Navy." Said the older man with a glower.

Colonel Wallis snorted a laugh, "That's the captain that snatched away William's lady love, Tilney."

"Really. Very interesting." The big man stared after him. To Anne it seemed as if her were sniffing the air, trying to catch the scent of something faint. "What did you say his name was?"

"Name? I never said." Laughed Wallis.

"Wentworth," hissed Elliott. "Captain Frederick Wentworth. No family of note. One of those low scrabblers scratching at the gentry's door, trying to make it through by compromising our females."

Tilney watched, his features so wolf-like, his eyes a strange amber colour. "More interesting. An old name, that one. You say he's the one that grabbed your fine pure blood filly? He bedded her yet?"

Anne stiffened. Mia grabbed her sweater, pulled her back into the shadows.

"Tilney - " Cousin Elliott raised an eyebrow. "We don't speak about ladies of breeding as breeding stock. Lower orders, yes, but never a lady. Now, what is this all about old blood, old families now? Is there truly something to what you were saying in the carriage?"

The general looked around, noticed Anne and Mia. His eyes narrowed. Anne suddenly felt stomach sick.

"Boys. Come here. Want to earn a penny?" His voice was commanding.


	6. Chapter 6 The Black Letter

**Sorry all, I am struggling with technology.**

**Chapter 6**

**The Black Letter**

"Depends sir…". Mia shouted, shoved Anne forward, hissed in her ear, "We do – it's a boy thing."

Ann grabbed Mia, and for some unknown reason, slung her forward, playfully. Mia turned and shouted at her like a younger brother, then straightened, faced the general, hands deep in her pockets, shoulders raised. Anne felt a dirty darkness radiating from the man, something like old dark blood that would not come out, dirty deaths, the screams of so many innocents. She kept her distance, like a wild horse from fire.

"Yah, sor. Maybe, sor depends, sor." Mia grunted like the stable boy out in the carriage house.

"Just deliver a note, No murder." The big man smiled, the joke not going to his cold, dead eyes. "Not this time at least."

Mia laughed at the joke, hit "Billy" in the shoulder. Anne laughed like it neither hurt.

Scribbling quickly Tilney wrote a note, handed it to Mia, gave Anne an address, not far from the Pump Rooms, a very good address. Almost as an afterthought he handed Mia a thin worn penny he had to search for from among what looked like coins of silver and gold. Mia, having watched the coster monger's boy, bit onto it, made a face, said, "It'll do, sir."

A push from Mia and they ran off in the direction of the Pump Rooms. Running as fast as their feet could carry them Anne felt like she was racing away from something dark, dirty and evil.

They careened around the corner onto a quiet side street and suddenly a hand shot out and grabbed Anne, slammed her into the wall. With a thud she bounced off the wall, into another solid body who grabbed her. She tried to squirm out. A big man shoved Mia against the wall.

"What the hell are you boys playing at? What did Elliott give you?"

"What...?" Anne started.

Frederick, shook Mia, and shoved her into Charles strong grip. Frederick froze, then roared, "Mr. Moreau! What god damn game are you..."

He shook Mia, then blanched when he looked at Anne, trapped in Charles arms. "Anne! What the hell..."

His hand, about to give a blow, froze mid-air. "God damn..."

Charles started to laugh. "Anne? Oh my god! S_ister_, is that _you_?" Letting go, he bent over, roaring with laughter. "Frederick - Look! The shock of your proposal has gone and broken the most upright and upstanding of women!"

Frederick pulled them both into a narrow alley between two houses, Charles following, his bulk hiding them from the street. "Anne, what the bloody..."

Mia looked up at him, said, "Sorry Captain. Sir, Miss Anne wanted to see if she could pass as a boy. We've been practicing. This was her big test - fool you."

Mia smiled that endearing smile she could do, not withering under Frederick's raging glare, rather, somehow melting its coldness.

"Looks like she passed." Charles choked, laughter filling the air.

Frederick did not pull Anne close, rather held her shoulder hard and straight away from him, neither pushing nor pulling away, just holding her, looking at her, his anger changing to befuddlement.

"First a..." Frederick glanced at Charles, fell silent.

"And now a boy. Anne... what are you up to?" He whispered, his voice full of surprise.

"God, I can't wait to just tell Mary this.' Charles started to laugh again. "You are lucky dear sister, I almost smashed you full into that wall for the fun of it. Imagine what we'd have to tell Elizabeth if you showed up with two black eyes and a split lip?"

"Hush." Frederick said shortly to Charles. "Anne... what did that lobster general give you?"

"It's a note.."

"Something about that man..." Frederick looked serious. "Something has has sent my skin crawling. Let's see that note."

With shaking hands, she unfolded it. Read the strong elegant script, and deeply confused, handed it to Frederick.

He read it quickly. "Damn." He said folding it, slipping it in his pocket. He looked at Anne, then Mia.

"Charles, I need a drink. A strong drink. What say you we take these fine young _lads_ out? I think we knows a upstanding establishment around the corner… of excellent reputation suitable for women and children."

Charles looked at Anne, and with a merry look winked at Frederick. "Great gods man, best idea of the year! Come on _lad_." He said, grabbed Mia's arm, spun out into the street.

Holding her still for a moment, Frederick looked in Anne's eyes. He said, nothing, reached out, and brushed the hair from her eyes. He pulled her hair back, and said, "I'd not have known... except for your eyes. Your ribbon though... lad... has slipped."

He pulled her ribbon free, then tied her hair back again, fingers stilling, resting in her hair.

"You cut it for this... masquerade?"

She nodded.

He smiled at her, pulled her knit cap lower. "Play a boy, _don't_ fall out of role. We'll be treating you like one. Just keep your eyes open and your mouth shut, watch, learn, at this next place."

Suddenly his hand stilled, fingers in her hair, a look in his face she could not understand, almost hungry. His thumb followed the line of her ear, slipped along the edge of her jaw. Electricity coursed to her feet. She wanted to press her head into his hand. He turned brusquely away.

She followed, silent, heart pounding, the touch of his fingers still echoing over her skin.

It wasn't hard to keep quiet in the place they went next. Pressed tightly together on a long bench filled with bodies, there was hardly any room to move. Anne was shoved tight against Frederick by a large man next to her who smelled of sausages and wet wool, and spoke of cattle. Charles and Mia sat on a bench across from them, the tow headed girl looking around with bright interest. A wooden rasher of ham and cheese with coarse bread on it was slammed down by a busy, hassled girl with a big horsey, open smile.

She leaned over Charles with a laugh, "Your regular, Squire Charlie?"

He burst out laughing and said "With a kiss on top too!" A wink at Anne when he said that.

"Three short beer for them," he nodded at Mia and Anne, "An ale and a whiskey for me, but for the captain- ale and a bad cheap rum."

"Damn, Charles, you know I hate rum."

Charles smiled wickedly.

"Damn, it's packed." Frederick grumbled. "Thought this was a quiet place."

"Sophia-Inez will be singing... great timing!" Charle's said, beaming.

"No wonder you were so insistent on getting out of the gun shop... I thought your love affair with guns had ended."

Anne pressed tighter against the wool of Frederick's everyday coat, trying to pull away from the big, loud man next to her, and looked nervously around. The noise of voices, raucous laughter, the smell of tight packed bodies and spilled beer was overwhelming. It was a dimmish space, long, narrow and full. Most of the light came through small white washed windows high in the shed's walls. Long tables ran the length of the building. People were packed on benches shoulder to shoulder with plates and beers in front of them. There were almost as many women as men, even groups of women alone. To her startlement there were children and old folk all dressed as if they had just come from Sunday church service, which they probably had, when she realized it was a Sunday.

The women though most definitely did not look like the slatterns working the streets that she sometimes caught sight of as their carriage rumbled through less reputable districts. Rather, they all seemed neatly dressed, some even stylishly dressed. None seemed rich. Suddenly Anne realized it was the lower orders, servants, waitresses, seamstresses, the millinery shop girls, shop owners, turned out in their Sunday best.

One red-headed woman caught her attention; she looked down with a tender smile at a young boy and girl sitting next to her, no more than five years old, said something to them that made them laugh and brighten more, kicking their feet in excitement. Anne realized she knew the woman, the head waitress at Molland's. A young man came and squeezed next to the children on the bench, kissed each on the top of their heads, obviously their father. He handed a mug of beer to his wife, small glasses to the children. In the corner two well dressed older women sat, discreetly holding hands, heads close together. Startled, Anne realized she knew them both too, one was Lady Granvilles' governess and the other was the Mrs. Bingley's lady's maid, the elegant and always laughing Mrs. Jessup. At another table two brightly dressed pretty blonds laughed among a group of other stylishly dressed young women. One smiled pointedly and wickedly at Frederick, who tipped his beer to her in salute.

He whispered to her "Do the same, send them a wink too."

With a silent gasp she realized the two were Mrs. Whitby's twin girls, who always served Anne at the ribbon and fabric shop. They were dressed with a sense a casual elegance that would have left even Elizabeth jealous. Young men all around eyed the two. One who looked like a young curate worked up his nerves, went over and bowed deeply to the table. The girls all tittered behind their hands.

Was that how the common people courted?

Many of the men seemed respectable workers, clerks and shop owners, the odd farmer dressed in his Sunday best, some country squires like Charles, the odd Navy officer. No dandys and absolutely no gentlemen that she could see were in the place. She caught sight of their costermonger and his son, and even the clerk at the bank she cashed her slim draws on the Elliott account. She glanced away when she realized Long, Jeffers and Jones were standing near the bar, talking to some laughing older women.

No one recognized her, but she pulled her cap lower, slouched more.

Frederick caught her glance, smiled. He leant as far back as he could to get a look as his love, trying so hard to play the boy. The smear of ashes on her cheek helped. The oh so upright and proper Miss Anne Elliott would never wear a smear like that. He found it adorable, even entrancing. Something about her dressed like that disturbed him, excited him, made him want to lean down and kiss her hard, drink in her scent. He smiled. When married he would buy her some boys clothes, teach her how to play a young gentleman; it would be best she be able to handle anything on board ship, any eventuality. It might in the long term even save her life.

But, the longer he spent time with her he the more he realized how rarified a circle his beloved floated in, how unconnected to life, to the lower orders, to the average Brit, his lady love truly was.

"What is this place?" She whispered to Frederick.

Quietly he whispered, "This? Just a... not quite a pub- pub. Almost like an assembly room. It's Sunday afternoon, it servants time off. Just a place known for good music in the afternoon."

"But there are children here." Anne gulped, "And not… quite ladies, but I wouldn't call them..."

"Not …" he stopped, looked for a word, not the ones he could never use around her. She needed to learn about cities, she would be in strange ones soon.

"There were a few of _those_ ladies -_and gentlemen_ \- here, but… Anne, it's their afternoon off too. Time with _their_ children, _their_ friends and families." He sipped his beer, nodded at a table of several tired looking women and men, laughing, feeding a small child a slice of ham. "This isn't a place where the "_working women_" work from - Mrs. Jessup would toss them out on their ears. Think of this place more as the community drawing room. All the women here are as upstanding as any country miss."

He almost said, with a dark scowl, maybe _more_ upstanding. Louisa had truly tried to compromise _him_ and back _him_ into a dangerous corner. He was getting the sense, too, that Elizabeth Elliott - at certain country house visits - could give the _working girls_ a run for their money. Especially if what he'd heard about Lady Vernon's gatherings were true. Broyle and McGillvary would gossip, yes, but would never lie.

With a smile, he looked at the table of shop-girls, nodded at them. Anne glanced over.

"The women here - they're the ones who work, build and run… a city, a country. Here's the cooks, the great house-matrons, the millinests and modistes, the housemaids of Bath, the shop owners, their shop girls, the woman in the post office, enjoying their afternoon off. "

With a smile he thought of the fishwives hauling nets on their with their husbands and fathers, the farmer wives, the women who ran the sail shop he dealt with in Portsmouth. The grand-daughter who in reality was the rigger supplier, stepping in for her father, a hopeless lazy drunk. A Miss Anne Elliott would never encounter those women, but a certain Mrs. Captain Wentworth most definitely would, and would probably be his representative along with his bosun and his master rigger. They'd "teach her the ropes". She'd be a quick learner.

Charles leaned across the table with a big smile on his face, shouted over the noise, Anne could barely hear him. "They serve a great ale and Devon ham and cheeses here! The music -it can't be beat. Four p.m. - the family show on Sundays." His his eyes sparkling he laughed. "Can't wait to bring little Charlie and Walter here."

Anne narrowed her eyes, and he winked. He definitely would not bring Mary here.

The large man next to her pushed Anne even closer to Frederick as yet another of the man's friends squeezed on to their bench. Frederick smiled, didn't inch away, seemed happy to have a reason to have Anne so close. He hooked an unseen leg around hers under the table, and she blushed deeply, staring into her beer, head down. His scent, the firm hardness of his muscles distracted her from the noise around her.

Suddenly a bustle, excitement, and musicians came out. Charles sat up straight, more excited. "Damn, the Spaniard. This'll be a good show - no wonder it's so packed."

Frederick smiled down at her. "It can get boring sitting around drinking tea all day and discussing weather with the gentry."

"Tell me about it." She said bitterly, then clamped her hand over her mouth. Frederick threw his head back and laughed.

"Anne, you amaze me. Always."

His face suddenly changed, he whispered. "That note... did you get any names?"

Leaning close, she said, "Cousin Elliott descended from the carriage talking about guns with his friend Colonel Wallis. I believe they called the older ... gentleman," for he had indeed been a gentleman, his accent, his wealth made that clear, but she loathed to use that term for the the man, "_Tilney_."

Frederick's face darkened. For a moment he sat silent.

"Damn. General Tilney. Now that one's a piece of work. I've heard unsavoury things of him." Unconsciously his hand searched for hers, but then let go, remembering where they were. "Keep _far_ from that one my dear". His whispered breath raised goose bumps on her neck.

"So, Elliott and Tilney together. How like eggs and butter." A scowl, then he looked at her, "The note…?"

"_Old Blood and Pure Blood will be there. My son will bring the Girl - when I say. Untouched._" Her blood ran cold as she whispered that. "What does that mean?"

She pressed closer to him as they squeezed yet another lad on their bench. She whispered into his ear but tried to pretend they were whispering about Mrs. Whitby's girls. Laughter around them drowned out Anne and Frederick's voices.

"The girl untouched? Do they… what…?" Fright made her voice crack.

Frederick's face stayed cool, betrayed no emotion, he said nothing. His silence said much. Anne's blood ran cold.

"Frederick, they spoke of Old and Pure blood, but… Tilney called _you_ _Old Blood_."

Catching the eye of Mrs. Whitby's eldest, Anne winked and tipped her beer at the taller of the girls, who blushed. Turning she whispered, "Colonel Wallsi called me... _a Pure Blooded Filly_."She blushed herself.

He smiled, and his hand rose, stilled; he'd almost touched her face again but masked it with a flick of hair out of his eyes. He tossed a brilliant smile at one of the Whitby's, as if they'd been in deep discussion of the two girls exceptional beauty.

"That you are my love." He whispered as quietly as possible. "But the… girl… this maybe unsavoury."

"Tilney said it as if it... mattered. As if she were … needed." She shivered. Thank god there had been a strong wind, and she had always stayed down wind of the wolf-like older man. Suddenly, her belly went cold.

If she'd been up-wind, could he have scented her blood? But no, her imagination was getting the best of her. But there were the rumours of the Kings army out on the Penninsula, off in distant India too, dark rumours of magics and werewolves, of too many slaughtered in battles, as berserker rage took over, tales of women, even nuns and children slaughtered as they ran. Cousin Fiz' stayed silent of his time in the army.

"He was firm, as if blood," her hand found his under the table, she squeezed it, "_Your_ blood mattered- for something important."

She blanched, remembering whispered hints of magics her mother had not taught her.

"We need more information. We need to get the note to the recipient. We should leave." Frederick voice was cold, firm.

He leant across to Charles. "Get Mr. Moreau home, will you Charles?" and was about to get up, when a shout rose from the crowd.

Anne turned and a curtain slipped aside. A short dark-skinned woman came out to cheers and applause. A strum of a guitar, a cheer, then suddenly, a ripple of sound, the guitar spilled a wild, complex music that caught Anne by the heart. The short woman stood straight, opened her mouth, and Anne forgot everything, just pulled Frederick down beside her.


	7. Chapter 7

**ELIZABETH'S LONG PLAN**

Miss Elizabeth Elliott laid the fabric down with a sigh. The peach watered silk was in the end, absolutely too expensive. Miss Elizabeth Elliott knew exactly the size of her personal bank account in 1815, as well as 1835, 1855, 1875 and all the way until August 1945. At this moment it was the smallest it would ever be, now, the February of 1815. Soon some of her investments would start paying off as an anonymous investor in the newly developing technology of steam engines and trains and her secret investments in French vin yards.

She'd only been able to invest a tiny amount, but it would accrue with time. Thank god for her grandmother's diamond ring, secretly slipped into her hand by her Nan upon her death bed. Upon that she would build an empire. It was just very hard, in this present, when women could not own things nor have bank accounts.

Thank god for masquerading as a man, a certain "_Elliot Sheppard_".

So, no watered peach silk for Anne and Frederick's little naval get together later in the week. A light, almost shear, cream muslin again. She smiled cooly at Marie-Berte, her modiste, and pointed at a particular plate. The woman's eyes rose and she smiled wickedly at Elizabeth. The dress would be very daring and use _very_ little fabric, – admit it, and to use that not quite yet common term – it would be a drop-dead sexy creation. Word would get out, other woman of more substance would grace the little French woman's shop, wanting the same little dress that turned men's heads.

With a nod, she left the shop, hurried up the busy street past shops and cafes, bookstores, print shops. It started raining. Bath meant rain. Elizabeth realized she needed to pee. She scowled.

It was 1815, no public toilets, no toilets at all were near. "Damn" she hissed.

Why was she here, now, in Bath of 1815? Anne didn't need her any longer– she had her arrogant knight-errant, slobbering puppy dog now to watch over her, to take care of her. And of course, there was Charles Musgrove too. That one would never let any harm come to Anne. Little sister Mary did not need her either. Their father – he just needed someone to worship him. That new footman, a young man maybe a bit too pretty, would do very well, thank you very much.

1815, England, blah! Miss Elizabeth Elliott did not need to stay here in stinking, damp Bath, waiting for Napoleon to fall and that stupid sword of Mia's to go where it needed to go. She could just decamp for sunny Paris, the summer of 1927, or New York City. How about 1932? Watch the World Series again, Babe Ruth at bat. She could play softball in Central Park with the girls -now women - her friends, the one's she'd worked with as nurses on the battlefields of France from 1916 to 1918. They could smoke cigarettes, and swear like sailors, then head up Fifth Avenue to drink tea and shop. It would be warm, and the sky blue. She could wear loose pants.

She did not need to be walking the drizzly streets of Bath, headed to the Pump Room, angry at the world, bored and broke, a women without any meaning nor consequence in Bath except to capture a husband and sip the fetid waters of Bath. She stopped at a bookstore window, hoping to see a magazine - something like a Vogue, Nash's or a McClures. She sighed. Nothing but her reflection and beyond it a copy of "Mansfield Park" with that horrid, bloodless, whiney Fanny Price gracing the pages.

Turning she walked along the windy misty street, nodded coldly at Mrs. Bingley walking with her sister-in-law, Caroline Bingley. Couldn't stand either of them. The oh, so filthy rich Mrs. Jane Bingley, who was so sickeningly sweet, angelic and perfect, and so utterly vapid, ditzy, and always so most easily shocked. Elizabeth Elliott's cigarillo and her need to discuss politics over tea had sent Mrs. Bingley into vapours, the silly woman saying she "Absolutely needed to meet her sister Lizzie." With an evil smile, one evening, she'd even thought of introducing the pretty woman to opium or lanandum. But Jane Bingley, compared to her sister-in-law Caroline, was truly was a sweety and a good soul, a woman with a truly kind heart. Elizabeth simply could not stand the shallow and slightly stupid Miss Caroline Bingley. That one was always pretty, fashionable, mercenary and snobby. She was money wanting more money.

Elizabeth ignored Mrs. Bingley's "Hello Miss Elliott, would you…"and the offered space under her umbrella. With a quite cool nod she walked quickly past the two elegant women, as if she had an appointment to keep. Despite it, she could feel Mrs. Bingley's honest hurt and Miss Bingley's anger at being snubbed by just "a poor baronet's daughter".

But then, she saw him. Her heart caught in her throat.

Blood rose in her veins, pumping hard, heat flared in her belly, the sound of the traffic around her went silent.

Did he see her?

No, he was talking with several other sailors, his face almost in profile. He was taller, his shoulders wider than the others, he was so more dashing, so more manly than any other man in wore his simple blue jacket, a muffler around his neck for the cold wind, a hat pulled low, the wind catching some rebel strand of hair. Even from here she could see his eyes creased deeply in laughter, his skin still weather darkened. Watching the hurrying crowd, she realized he drew people's eyes, his bearing, his look, his spirit. He was handsome, he was strong, he was a leader.

She hadn't realized that she had come to a stop until a couple bumped into her. She went and stood against the wall, not hidden, but unseen by him, just watching him.

He threw back his head and laughed, and a sun beam broke from the dark sky, leapt out and caught his face as he did so, as if he were a minor god, and the sun would and should smile upon him. His teeth flashed white against his sea darkened skin. His friend laughed with him, then they all turned and headed down the street talking animatedly. With a sudden sadness she knew he'd not seen her standing across the street, like a deer startled by a hunter.

She let out a shuddering sigh, confused again of what she felt when she saw him. It was so like what she had felt the first time she'd ever seen him, standing staring at her with that teasing, arrogant smile on his face. That flare of emotion, of familiarity and warmth in her heart, her soul leaping forward and shouting, "_Here, here is the beloved_." Her heart and belly must be wrong. He was not an earl.

It just had to be his... physical attraction. He was... the term would not be in fashion until the roaring '20s... _hot_. But... but there was something else. What was this she was feeling, if she were honest to herself? Yes there was hunger in her body for him, but there… was something more. Something beyond want, more than yes… but that feeling, what word encompassed it?

She realized she wanted him to see her, to simply see her. She wanted him to smile at her like he had smiled at those friends.

The clouds closed again, the sky suddenly seemed more threatening. Rain started to fall.

"Miss Elizabeth, are you ok?" The gentleness of the voice behind her startled her.

Elizabeth jerked straight, spun, dropping a cold, disdain filled look on her face before she turned to glance up at Captain Frederick Wentworth. Damn the man, she thought. She hoped to god he'd not caught anything, not a single thing, on her face as she watched Croft's bosun, Long, walk away.

Gently he said, "You are getting wet, sister." He held out an umbrella, despite the water glistening on his jacket. Did this nobody always have to always play the noble gentleman? Admiral McGillvary and that most capital of asses, John Broyle - the future Viscomt Randall, were with him.

"Well obviously we have no need for umbrella's if yours is not up." She snapped at him, tossing an icy look at Broyle. Wentworth's face went cold and bland, he nodded brusquely at her and pulled Broyle past.

"Miss E, you never could raise a mast." Broyle muttered as he walked by, unheard by the others. "Despite your obvious delights."

She hissed.

McGillvary stopped, leant over. "You seem a bit over-excited, Miss Elliott," the handsome young admiral observed dryly. He glanced down the road at the disappearing band of common sailors, then smiled as he stepped by her, "They're good for a romp but not a single one of those will ever pay any _your_ bills."

"Tapette!" She spat after him as he hurried to join the two others, doubting any of them spoke street French. He flipped her a bird, behind his back. She scowled. Only the Navy set would ignore that one's Greek sins. Spinning she stalked off in the direction Wentworth hadn't.

She refused Lady Russell's offer for a ride to her father's, not wanting to be lectured at, and instead stood shivering, trying to decide where to go as the rain fell harder and the wind started to gust. Croft's house drew her, but it would be best to go home, change into dry clothes.

As she hurried along, getting wetter, she wondered why hadn't she taken the old bat's offer. Her boots were wet, her hat dripping, and she couldn't magick herself dry in public. She now even regretted not taking Wentworth's offered umbrella, and walked with her head down, rain pouring off of her wilted hat.

Suddenly a deep voice, surprisingly concerned, exorted "Miss E. You're wet!"

She spun, and Long stood there, staring at her surprised, a hard to read look on his face.

"Let me call you a chair." His voice was kind, concerned. When he saw her consternation, he said with a gentle smile, "Don't worry, my gift. My coin's good for it."

"No, Mr. Long. Thank you."

He smiled at her faux pas.

Damn, had she just called an ex-bosun _mister_? Had she just raised him from just a lowly not to be bothered with "just Long" to a "Mr. Long"? Raised him to almost a gentleman?

"No, Long, I'm quite fine. I am headed home…" She tried recamp, to sound normal, not let the confusion his eyes threw her into fall into her voice.

He smiled, a true and warm smile that rose into face, flashed in his eyes. No, their sparkling brightness - it was a smile that started in his eyes. No, it started maybe in his heart, and then curled his lips. His lips…

"If so, Miss E, you are headed to your father's home that is the wrong way. That direction surely is Admiral Crofts." His smile was kind, his voice teasing. He used that oh so elevated accent he'd mimic every now and then, as if he felt his betters could not understand the servants used.

"What ever!" She tried to sound commanding and collected. "I am, after all, allowed to to see my always absent sister, am I not?"

He smiled tenderly. "Of course, miss. And you just go only to see Miss Anne. And of course to discuss the weather with the captain. You _never_ go to see _anyone_ else?"

Yes, it was true. She had been at Crofts quite a bit recently, maybe too much, but there was the seeing to of that child wizard, visiting with Anne, sparring with that _dog_ her sister would lower herself severely to marry. She really needed to act as a duenna between the two. Sipping Long's mixed alcohols was just part of it. She really was needed, going to see those others to make sure her sister was not compromising her honour.

But of course Anne never would. She was an upright, uptight prig.

Long always just happened to be there - all the time. Of course, he should be. Long was not a gentleman. Long worked there.

Elizabeth started as she looked in his eyes. What were they really saying? Was there something in his eye?

A sudden gust and wind hit them hard, rain hammered down. He pulled her against the meagre shelter of a building wall.

"Miss E - Let me help you!" He spun off his jacket, held it over both their heads, pushing her tighter against the building as the heavy rain fell black and cold around them, his body, his jacket protecting her from the cold rain. In the small protection of his body and wall she whispered "_Dry_", and "_No rain_" in the language her mothers' had spoken since time immemorial. The stood crammed in that tiny sheltering square, bodies almost pressed together, the scent of him enveloping her.

She was startled by the funny look on his handsome face as he stared in her eyes.

Would anyone see just who a common sailor had pressed against this wall? Would they see only "_some_ _skirt_", her too thin fabric whipping in the wind, just a common _drab _pressed against a wall? Would they see who he bent over, pretending to shelter from the rain? Could anyone see her face, raw and startled by his eyes, her emotions unschooled?

His eyes were younger, he was younger then she'd thought at first. His face was weathered, even battered, by fists, waves and wind; it was true, just as her father said, all sailors faces were old before their time. It was beaten, honed by the sea and sun, yet handsome. He was maybe of her own age, a touch older. Which was quite young, thank you kindly. It was a face filled with experience, life. Humour, keen intelligence, discernment played in his eyes, and every now and then she had caught a flash of joy or a thing soft and so gentle playing in there when he would look at her in the elegant rooms of Sophia Croft.

Did she hear whispered in the wind "Quid hoc est?". But a common sailor would not whisper to the rain in Latin. How long did they stand there eyes caught in their private space?

When did her lips find his? She knew it was she who stepped closer to him, moved her face upwards towards his, close, then closer. Finally, brushing hers on his. She felt him shiver like a horse.

But he only stood there, his eye filled with marvel and startlement. His lips tasted of mint tea, and his kiss flared of life and joy and growing things. She suddenly thought of the streams of Kellynch and the mosses and forest where she had been so safe. She fell -or maybe pressed -deeper into that kiss. Her hands went his chest, such a hard chest, muscled and firm. His lips were hungry, but he never pressed back, just accepted her kisses with a warm joy, and his arms never lowered the sheltering jacket above them. She was the one to pull him close, her arms slipping under his jacket, drawing him to her. The heat of his body startled her, she wanted to curl tighter against it.

The soft gentleness, joy, and even want in his eyes was suddenly replaced by concern, worry. "Miss E – we need to get you home. This is not quite proper! Can't compromise your… on doit... Now, ma'amselle."

Did the man speak French on top of Latin?

Not asking, hidden by the black, cold, driving rain, he herded her with his body, the jacket over her head always as he trotted her towards the Croft's, their legs in a quick unison, as if they'd always walked together at the same beat. The rain poured down heavier, colder. They dashed faster. A particularly strong gust slammed her, drove her stumbling into him. Her breath caught as their bodies tangled. A firm arm righted her, but didn't let go as they sprinted the last little bit towards the house, he half carrying, half dragging her while she almost dragged him through the cold black February rain.

Coming to the house she stumbled to a stop suddenly in horror. Lady Russell's carriage was pulled up in cold realization she saw Wentworth's face at the window looking out at the rain, notice them with surprise; but then the man spun away, turning to say something to someone in the room as and whipped the curtain shut behind him.

Long half pulling her, half carrying her, she half dragging him, they ran up the steps to the main door as the rain slammed them again.

He pushed her through the door, alone, turned, was gone.

At least the man knew the proper door to go through, despite how impertinent he was. Elizabeth glanced at the door behind her, hearing his feet descend the stairs, a quick thought, _How much does a major-domo make working for an admiral? Can he afford a carriage_?


	8. Chapter 8 A Whiskey for Long

**Chapter: A Whiskey for Long, Cocktails for Elizabeth**

"Well sister, I do believe this evening may be entertaining, but less elegant than our cousin the Dalyrimples card parties. Your _Mrs. Smith_ is coming?" Elizabeth sneered as she put her pelisse on. A ride back to her fathers by Lady Russell, a hot bath and a nap had restored her composure.

"Yes, Nurse Rooke is bringing her."

"The nurse _will not be joining us_…" Elizabeth sneered, as she was handed into the carriage by Father's pretty footman.

"No, Liza. But Charles will, as will Harville."

"God, tell me Mary is _not_ coming."

"No, Mary is _not_ coming. Frederick bought her, Henrietta and Mrs. Musgrove tickets to the little operetta being performed this evening…. The one about…". Anne settled next to her sister, both waved good bye to their Father, who had poopoo-ed the sisters' idea of sitting in for Sophia Croft at a dinner of "_orange skinned sailors, must be quite entertaining, counting their wrinkles, enduring their gout, recounting their adventures in filling their holds with sausages_". Anne's explanation to him, that this would be her future life, was put down. Her father said she couldn't expect a baronet to be seen associating with _those_ people.

In regard to the theatre, Elizabeth said bitingly, "Oh, don't tell me. I am certain that is just some crass entertainment meant for the lower classes. Mary and the Musgrove women should love it. And Mary can't get enough of that actor fellow, what is his name?"

Adjusting her gloves, Elizabeth glanced at her sister. "Oh, I received a note from dear Georgina - she, Darcy and Fitz are coming to Bath. Thank god Great Aunt Catherine is _not_ joining their party. What she will say when the news of your sad, lowering alliance with your Captain Dog is apprised to her?"

Elizabeth smiled meanly at Anne.

"Sadly, we will have endure that low born wife of Darcy's." Voice venemous, Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "You do know, as well, our dear cousin Elizabeth Steventon arrived today?"

Anne nodded. When cousin Ellie's note had been left it felt like a punch in Anne's gut. Though the two had never met, seven and 1/2 years ago Ellie Steventon had vowed to kill one Frederick Wentworth if she ever had the chance to meet him.

Ellie was a woman who kept her promises.

"Your cocktail awaits, Miss Elliott, in the reception room." Long said as he opened the door before Elizabeth could open her mouth. Anne smiled.

"Excellent. Good to know that _old_ dogs can learn new tricks. Your captain impresses me more sister Anne, he is able to whip his lazy servants into a modicum of professionality." She swept by Long, trailing her wrap against his arm, with a pointed look at the man, who was neatly appointed in a well brushed short deep blue jacket, clean and pressed white pants, his sandy brown hair neatly pulled back. Dropping her pelisse on the floor as Long took Anne's Elizabeth stripped off her over gloves and dropped them, one by one, on the floor as well.

"It is good to know as well that your master does allow you shoes and a chance to bathe." She observed as Frederick came down the stairs.

"Fuck off Elizabeth. Long, give her a drink and keep her shut up and away from me." He snapped shortly, his breath catching as he saw Anne dressed in a deep gold gown. "I see you got my gift."

Anne's eyes were damp.

"Thank you… Elizabeth's modiste said that her girls worked all night long on this…" She fell silent. "And you look…"

"Like a popinjay. But there will be a lot of braid and medals at this supper, so I need to step up and out-braid them all."

He fell silent as he watched Elizabeth eyeing Long as he collected her outer clothes from the floor. Frederick sighed. And Elizabeth thought Anne was making a bad match with _him_. Haa - that would be rich justice if the hunger he saw in Elizabeth's eyes were true.

He smiled, thinking of Governor Randalls' niece running off with one of his _Lacona_ warrant officers. The haughty girl had been meant to make a spectacular match as well.

Leaving Anne to finalize the formal dinner attack plans with the house keeper and Mrs. Rickette's,the cook, Frederick steeled himself for an attack on Elizabeth. Best to start quietly, but as he opened the reception room door, Long and Elizabeth stood near the fire. To his shock they both had glasses in hand, Long a whiskey and Miss E a cocktail. They stood close together, Longs free hand on the mantle. The man stared at the fire, head down, and as Frederick quietly went to close the door he heard Long say, "No, very recent. It was my mother who was Elven." Frederick caught a look of surprise on Elizabeth's face. His accent was not a working class one, rather one that would make even the baronet's legs quake.

Frederick pulled back, shut the door silently. In a normal household, in a normal situation he would have said something. In that situation, he should have roared at Long, even stunned him with a blow, for not knowing his place, for over stepping boundaries, _for associating with his betters_. There was a long litany of reasons why those two at that fireplace should not be standing - as equals – and so close to each other. A drink in the man's hand even. He'd said keep her entertained, not entertain her.

But Frederick smiled. One, Long was ultimately his sister's problem, and, two, Long was a wizard or witch or whatever that term was Mr. Moreau used. Definitely a handy chap to have around, plus an experienced fighter. Long was a smart and capable man, he had to be if he had risen to bosun for Croft. That man _knew_ the rules of society, of class, and it would be interesting to see what Long would do, what Elizabeth would do, how this would play out.

Frederick was plain curious.

Too, Frederick wanted to give Elizabeth a nice long rope to hang herself on.

Long, interesting. Had an Elven maid of a good family given herself to a regular man to birth a Long? Someday he would have to buy the man a beer and hear the story.


	9. Chapter 9 A Very Naval Supper

**CHAPTER A Naval Supper with Univited Guests**

Most of the meal felt like old times aboard ship to Frederick. Packed tight around the table they spoke of Napoleon, battles, politics and Navy budgets. The drinks were copious, the laughter loud. A proper naval supper.Except for the ladies of course. Mrs. Smith, tiny, pretty, pale and pink, Elizabeth magnificent and icy, in a dress with barely enough shear fabric to cover her body, and his Anne, golden, brown and warm, and the most beautiful woman at the table. Admirals Croft's friends accepted the sudden lack of an admiral in exchange for naval company, beautiful women and good food.

All knew Frederick from his days as a mid-shipman and then a lieutenant on Croft's ship before he made another ship. Admiral Parry and Captain Ross teased him about missing the chances of lifetimes, but FW smiled. He'd been in a place that had brought him back to Anne, and that was all that mattered. Frederick's friends at the table included McGillvary, Harville, McMaan and Harding.

Frederick smiled as Anne chatted merrily with old Carruthers. She was so different from the thin, hopeless Anne he had first returned too, the drawn, exhausted woman folding a blanket in a room with a hurt and bruised child at her knees, a frightened look in her eyes when he came through the door and saw at her for the first time in 8-1/2 years. At that moment, in that room, there seemed to be no hope that the funny, passionate, intelligent woman would reappear. She _had_returned, and he was happy. He could deal with the magic, the Elven, the Old Ones, boggarts and wolves. Compared to their long and bitter separation, their cool estrangement, those were nothing.

Carruthers laughed at something Anne said, but then the old admiral went serious. He heard her ask about Quebec. Old Carruthers had been there when Cooke and Wolfe took the city from the French, had been just a boy then, fought on the Plains when both Wolf and Montcalm had died.

Over the years, whispered in the dark of the night, Frederick had heard out on the open oceans by old men deep in their cups that both Wolf and Montcalm had died in blood magic, in the fight to take North America from its rightful owners, the Mohawk, the Huron, the other peoples. The Annus mirabeulus, 1759.The fight between France and England, that was secondary. The real fight had been to get _Turtle Island_and its riches from its' rightful peoples.

Wine tonight flowed, as did other drinks, and Mrs. Ricketts good English fare disappeared. Croft's buddies from the East Indies were had also been expecting dishes from his little cook, DeepaMa, and she did not disappoint. The sailors who had not sailed there found the smells off putting, but surprisingly Miss Elizabeth Elliott accepted plates with gusto, and even sighed over missing "Thai" food.

Anne gave her a dark look.

Old Admiral Spencer raised an eyebrow. "Siam? When the hell…?"

Frederick noticed Long was keeping Miss E's glass full, and she became wittier and crueler with each passing glass, not that she ever needed help. She had all the men hanging off of her words, and her low cut gown, and had been shredding the brightest lights of Bath to bits when she decided to turn her knife-like tongue on Anne and himself.

"Talking of those that wish to climb and all things _Naval_my sister has been quite successfully boarded…"

Anne blanched, Charles spat his wine across the table trying to not choke.

Boyle snorted, "Yikes, Miss Elliott you sound likes you were the one hoping to be taken as a prize."

McGillvary and Harville choked on their drinks in surprise. Mrs. Smith, Georgie, eyes bugged out, but she quickly grabbed a napkin. Leave it to Boyle. Georgie looked appreciatively at Boyle.

Elizabeth shot Broyle the blackest of looks, but he ranked her, substantially.

Long interrupted, "Sorry sors, but Mr. Moreau wan's to sing yea'alls a song, but his sleep time is near. I 'ears him hat de door now."

Frederick looked at Long suspiciously, but in relief. His voice and accent sounded again like the regular naval Long, not the smooth, cultured voice he'd heard whispering to Elizabeth earlier.

Before anyone could raise their eyebrows that the lady did not discipline Long for interrupting, Anne leapt up, "Oh yes! _He_has been waiting…".

Elizabeth's mouth opened and he saw Anne flick her fingers at her. No sound came out. A shocked look on Elizabeth's face, a smirk on Long's.

The door opened and Mia walked in, every inch a young boy. But a clean and well put together young boy, in a newish jacket, and a bright red scarf. Overdoing it and with a flourish she said, "Hello sors. Ladies. Miss Anne here akksed me to sing you sum songs… going to do that. These are from my 'ome in the north of British North H'emerica. Wots we alls calls Canada."

Broyle snorted a laugh, whispered out loud to McGillvary "One of Wentworths by blows finally catch up with him?"

Harville thwacked him in the arm as captains laughed. Harville's eyes though were thoughtful though. With a scowl, F markedly rolled his eyes. Add it to the list of other things to talk to Anne about.

Mia went and she stood by the fire. "Uhm.. we's what? 1815, eh? You guys is all admirals and captains, eh? I'm gonna sing ya a kinda ship song then."

Moreau searched a moment for a note, and then in a clear, light but surprisingly passionate voice for one so young started to sing. The last of her song made Frederick's blood run like ice.

_Ah, and now we run the Northwest Passage_

_After the wars and the long Black Ravage_

_Standing fast fighting hard the soulless zombie_

_Our Walls …the Northwest Passage… and the sea._

Bowing with a flourished sweep of her hand, Frederick glared at Mia, and she smiled a sweet smile, ignoring his anger.

Parry and Ross sat there, looking hard. "What's this? The Northwest Passage…. Who's this _Franklin_? Not Franklin out on the Great Slave now, is it?"

"Wot? Zombies? Wot rot is that…" Parry glared. "Sea? Its friggin ice up there! An ice covered continent!"

Moreau suddenly looked confused. "Oh damn." She cocked an eye at Elizabeth, "Wrong …?"

Elizabeth, silent, her lips in a tiny, hard smile nodded.

In a loud voice he loathed to use amongst this crowd, but he needed to nip this all in the bud, keep control of the situation said, "Admiral Parry, Sir. I believe you used wizards in your fight with Nelson at Trafalgar?"

Parry suddenly looked suspicious. Some said that was why Nelson died, he had no shipboard wizards with him, the rest of the captains of the line scrabbling by hook, crook or darker means to get some. Rumour was, some had even brought women wizards aboard.

Standing, Frederick poured Parry some of the quite illegal best brandy he'd been able to get his hands on. "Our Mr Moreau says he _met_a wizard who _had_come to _visit from the future_. The gentleman chatted with him, taught him some songs. If it is true, it seems that we will have some setbacks in the Discovery Service, and possibly some things we stir up now will impact the future … in unexpected and unpleasant ways. If we can believe these stories." He smiled at the men around him. "Moreau is a child after all. Doesn't understand things."

She shot him the darkest scowl but held her tongue, with Longs fingers pinching her ear.

While E started to tear apart the Admirality and their idiocy, Frederick glanced at Anne, so gorgeous in her neo-classical gown, a low-cut dark rich golden-russet tunic of silk that ran like water over her torso, draped over a paler skirt of golden stuff over her legs. The fine fabric showed every line and curve of her. It was wickedly indecent, and he liked it. So different from the woman he had startled in Mary's parlour in Upper Cross, young Charles injured on the couch, her eyes dark with exhaustion, her face pale from a sleepless night and worry, a faded wrinkled country day dress on. This evening her eyes glowed, was it for their upcoming union, or the fight E was about to launch into.

All would be fine he thought, if _Anne_kept quiet, her humour though rare, could be devastating.Gilly raised his eyebrows, tipped his glass at F, and whispered, "Where did you find her. If you ever cast the future Mrs. Wentworth aside, I get her first."

Elizabeth and two of the older admirals started to argue. E was vicious. Out of the side of his mouth, Harville, sitting on his otherside, smiled darkly at F while the table was distracted. "And how the hell you ever walked away from her in the first place? And then treat her like such shite."

Dispite the years, his and Harville's friendship had changed since the incident at Lyme. Harville thought he'd seen F at his worst out on the sea but instead discovered how flawed the man was in Lyme, his behaviour with Louisa, and learning the story of Uppercross. Harville had been horrified to learn from Frederick himself, that the man did not love the girl.

Harville been disappointed when Mary, then Charles, neither noticing his probing, revealed the story of Frederick while Louisa lay unconscious. As soon as he met the girl he'd understood that Wentworth was about to make a very stupid mistake, and marry a very young, very common country miss. Yes, the girl was pretty and vivacious, but too she was spoiled, self-centred, with no real strength of character, nor any higher faculties. She was not a reader, not a thinker. The first hardship or shock that hit her, she would crumple. The girl was not naval wife material, not like his own Mary.

Nor like Miss Anne Elliott who had taken control of the situation with a cool and calm head while others panicked. Drunk, Frederick revealed he'd been using Louisa to get revenge on her, and had no real of marrying her, he'd mostly been bored. Suddenly, though, he had found himself a committed man.

Harville smiled. Funny how the universe, never man, could _sometimes_be just. Bennick had noticed Miss Anne, had brightened and smiled for the first time in too long when Miss Anne had shook his hand. Bennick had started to rally again as the two quietly spoke poetry and books in corners and on the edges of the group.

Unnoticed by all but Harville, Frederick's darker side, his jealousy had been woken.

At first Harville had been blind to Miss Anne's misery, she was so cool, collected, and he did not know the lady. But then he would catch her watching Frederick, weighing and considering, Harville had thought.

It was only a quiet comment by Bennick that raised a flag for Harville. "_Notice, how Wentworth never seems to touch Miss Louisa, nor pay her much attention - except when Miss Anne can clearly see him do so? Very strange, very strange. Miss Louisa's not his type either. He's always liked dark women. And sharp, witty. Wonder what he's at. Maybe she has more money than they say. Never thought of our Frederick as a gold digger though_."

No, Harville was still angry at his friend. Still angry that he had been wounded: certain that that cannon ball had been meant for Frederik, not for him. He was still angry at the world and its unfairness, though he worked hard, so hard to not let anyone see that anger, most of all his self-less and brave wife. But despite that, it was good to be away from a house full of children, wives, Bennick, Louisa. Good to be talking of Naval things, battles fought, politics.

With a sigh, Frederick looked at Harville, and wondered if his friend ever forgive him, ever respect him again? He wasn't sure.

Suddenly a banging and thumping out in the hall, Frederick leaped up startled. Men froze. A bang, thuds.

Anne and E smiled at him, shook their heads, calm, cool. No servants screamed, everyone relaxed.

What did their magic let them know? He looked at Anne, this woman, who would be an excellent addition to his ship. He smiled, and wondered if he just press her now, take her out to a ship and not wait for a wedding? Too, another thing to add to that growing list of secrets and things not spoken of, he'd have to tell her about ships before she joined his. The real things about ships.

A rap on the door and in strode Admiral Charles Croft followed his sister Sophie, both red cheeked from the cold. A shout of greeting, happy and drunken to the arrivals.

"Ah ha, Sophie, just as I suspected. Our young Frederick, too befuddled with a new fiancée to think about calling off our dinner party." A wink at Anne, which made her smile even more brightly. "And why should he, when he can host _my_party, invite _his friends_, and feed _his_friends, and _her_family off of _our_stock of victuals and spirits."

The Navy all leapt to their feet as Sophie came in, as tall as her husband and as upright.

"Dearest, of course Miss Anne would make sure all ran well and serve only the second-best wine." Sophias words raised a roar of laughter from her guests. "My dear brother probably has just been reading or mooning around town -looking for guns with Charles Musgrove."

Sophie hugged Frederick hard, a look of concern sudden on her face. Anne smiled at her in appreciation, couldn't wait to.… well, sit down and talk to the always observant and calm woman.

Charles, quite brazenly, went over, and gave Sophie a great hug and a gentle kiss on the cheek. A funny friendship had sprung up between the two over dogs and horses. Charles shook the Admirals hand. "My deepest condolences at your loss."

Anne Elliott saw Crofts face, for just moment, break in grief. Almost immediately it was back to his normal, seemingly "_all is fine_" look. Anne, suddenly remembering the importance the Wentworth's as well as the Musgrove's put on family, rose and hugged the Admiral. That familial warmth was so different from the cold formalness of the Elliott home. Her mother's servants had saved Anne from devastating loneliness and loss after her mothers death, and then Fredericks departure in 1806. They were her true family.

Holding Anne in a hug, Sophie whispered, "Anne, you are just gorgeous tonight… I think this is a good thing, my slow, stunned brother and you, together. Finally, together, after that too close brush with disaster."

"How's the Admiral?"

"He'll survive. They were close once, but Will for the Navy when he was 11."

Anne nodded. Even twins would grow apart, after 40 years.

Unconsciously, used to command, Sophia took over the party. Anne sat back and watched as the older woman worked the room, worked the servants, no, the ex-crew, and took control of all the captains and admirals. These were things she would need to do as well very soon, things she needed to learn.

As she watched Anne realized each and every one of the men at the table was in love with Sophia in their own way. Some, mostly the Admirals friends, were deeply and utterly in love with her, others, carried deep respect and friendship. Harville and McGillvary were under her sway too, though nothing could budge Harville's wife Mary from his heart, and "Gilly" from his own interests. Broyle didn't seem to notice her, being seriously drunk and busy too, trying to impress Georgina Smith.

Sophie was magnificent, even in her 38th year. Tall, lean and dark, her face was harsh angled, strong jawed, a mirror of her brother. They could almost be twins, except, somehow she was a beautiful woman, and he a deucedly handsome man. But put a man's hat on her, or a wig and a smear of lipstick on him, they'd be twins. Fine laugh lines played around her eyes and mouth, her skin was tanned and healthy looking. She was an outdoors woman, like Anne's cousin Elizabeth Stevens, both so unlike the sickly pallor of Miss Carteret, whom Father fawned on. Like Frederick, Sophia's eyes were grey, hazel in some light. She kept her hair shorter than was the fashion, though it had lengthened since they'd first met.

Anne could imagine her dressed as a man. Had she?

This evening she wore a fashionable blue travelling jacket and skirt, buttons running up the narrow skirt, and she tossed her hat to land perfectly on a small table across the room, to cheers from the Navy. Her hands had fascinated Anne and did even more now. They were large and competent, nails kept neat and short, and when she took off her gloves they were scarred and callused. They were hands of a woman who did things.

"So, who is this young fine…" The admiral's keen eyes suddenly went suspicious, he glanced at his wife, "…fellow?"

Going to Mia, Anne said firmly to all, "We will talk about it tomorrow. Mr. Moreau, to bed with you _now_."

Eyes brightened around the table, as all the captains, except Harville, inwardly smirked, imagining a _by-blow surprise revealed to the wife to be_. Best to beat Broyle to the draw Anne was learning. Haughtily, channeling Elizabeth, she said, "Broyle, if you _do_find any _other_boys or girls out about do bring them home too. No matter their colour."

She heard Frederick choke on his wine, as Sophie barked a laugh.

"Excellent sister, maybe you do have the balls for this profession." Elizabeth drawled, rising. "Ladies, we'll leave the Navy here. I need a proper drink and a smoke."

Sophie barked a laugh. "Who appointed her captain?'

Long, pulling out Anne's seat, looked up at Sophia Croft with a serene smile and in a slow drawl, said, "Your brother, madam."

As they left the room, she could hear Croft say, "Why dear, it looks like Frederick added a nice beat up sword to that stupid sword collection over the mantle. What, brother, becoming a collector?"

Rickettes hurried into the dining room with a silver tray, covered dishes smelling of the food of India that the Admiral loved so.

To the clink of plates Sophie stood considering the well used sword and said instead, "Look, dear husband, as I told you while we were coming home, Deepa Ma _would _have your favourites ready for you."


End file.
